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THE 



BRIDE OF FORT EDWARD 



THE 



/ BRIDE OF FORT EDWARD, 



FOUNDED ON 



AN INCIDENT OF THE REVOLUTION. 

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P N E W - Y O R K : 
PUBLISHED BY S. COLMAN, 

V\\\ ASTOR H( 
BROADWAY . 

1839. 



^' 



Entered accoiding to tlie Act of Congress, in the year 1839, by 

S . C O L M A N . 

in tlie Clerk's Olfice of the District Court of the United Stales, for the 

Southern District of New-York. 



N KW-Y () kk: 

Printed by Scatc tikrd wd Adams. 

No. 38 Oold Street. 



PREFACE 



I AM extremely anxious to guard against any mis- 
conception oi^ the design of this little work. I there- 
fore take the liberty of apprising the reader before- 
hand, that it is not a Play. It was not intended for the 
stage, and properly is not capable of representation. 
I have chosen the form of the Dialogue as best 
suited to my purpose in presenting anew the pas- 
sions and events of a day long buried in the past, but 
it is the dialogue in scenes arranged simply with 
retereuce to the impressions of the Reader, and 
wholly unadapted to the requirements of the actual 
stage. The plan here chosen, involves throuijhout 
the repose, the thought, and sentiment of Actual life, 
instead of the hurried action, the crowded plot, the 
theatrical elevation which the Stage necessarily de. 
mands of the pure Drama. I have only to ask that 
1 may not be condemned for failing to fulfil the con- 
ditions of a species of writing which I have not at- 
tempted. 



Vlll PREFACE. ^ 

The story involved in these Dialogues is essentially 
connected with a well-known crisis in our National 
History; nay, it is itself a portion of the historic re- 
cord, and as such, even with many of its most trifling 
minutiae, is imbedded in our earliest recollections ; 
but it is rather in its relation to the abstract truth it 
embodies, — as exhibiting a law in the relation of the 
human mind to its Invisible protector— the apparent 
sacrifice of the individual in the grand movements for 
the race, — it is in this light, rather than as an histo- 
rical exhibition, that I venture to claim for it, as here 
presented, the indulgent attention of my readers. 

THE AUTHOR. 

New-Yo^, July 7th, 1839. 



THE 
A DRAMATIC STORY. 



Scene. Fort Edward and its vicinity^ on the Hvdson, 
near Lake George. 

PERSONS INTRODUCED. 

British and American officers and soldiers. 
Indians employed in the British service. 
Elliston — A religious missionary residing in the ad- 
jacent woods. 
George Grey — A young American. 

Lady Ackland — Wife of an English Officer. 

Margaret — Her maid. 

Mrs. Grey — The widow of a Clergyman residing 

near Fort Edward. 

Helen, and } rr j 7 ^ 

> — Her daughters. 
Annie, > 

Janette — A Canadian servant. 

Children, d^c. 

Time included— from the afternoon of one day to the 
close of the following. 



JPagc. 

Part I. The Carsis and its Victim. . . 13 

II. Love or 

I"- Fate '.'.'.'.'..'. 04 

IV. Fulfilment. . . 



86 
120 
VI. Reconciliation I49 



V. Fulfilment 220 



WiEllE IBIEIIS)!! ©I? IF^m"^ mWj'W^m.Wu 



PART FIRST. 



INDUCTION. 

DIALOGUE I. 

Scene. The roadside on the slope of a wooded hill near 
Fort Edward. The speakers, two young soldiers, — 
Students in arms. 

1st Student. These were the evenings last year, when 
the bell 
From the old college tower, would find us still 
Under the shady elms, with sauntering step 
And book in hand, or on the dark grass stretched, 
Or lounging on the fence, with skyward gaze 
Amid the sunset warble. Ah ! that world, — 
That world weHved in then — where is it now ? 
Like earth to the departed dead, methinks. 

2nd Stud. Yet oftenest, of that homeward path I think, 
Amid the deepening twilight slowly trod, 

And I can hear the click of that old gate, 
2 



14 THEBRIDEOF 

As once again, amid the chirping yard, 

I see the summer rooms, open and dark, 

And on the shady step the sister stands, 

Her merry welcome, in a mock reproach, 

Of Love's long childhood breathing. Oh this year, 

This year of blood hath made me old, and yet. 

Spite of my manhood noAv, with all my heart, 

I could lie down upon this grass and weep 

For those old blessed times, the times of peace again. 

1st Stud. There will be weeping, Frank, from older 
eyes. 
Or e'er again that blessed time shall come. 
Hearts strong and glad now, must be broke ere then : 
Wild tragedies, that for the days to come 
Shall faery pastime make, must yet ere then 
Be acted here ; ay, with the genuine clasp 
Of anguish, and fierce stabs, not buried in silk robes, 
But in hot hearts, and sighs from wrung souls' depths. 
And they shall walk in light that we have made. 
They of the days to come, and sit in shadow 
Of our blood-reared vines, not counting the wild cost. 
Thus 'tis : among glad ages many, — one — 
In garlands lies, bleeding and bound. Times past. 
And times to come, on ours, as on an altar — 
Have laid down their griefs, and unions 
Is given the burthen of them all. 

2nd Sfnd. And yet, 

See now, how pleasantly the sun shines there 



F II r E I) W A K D . 15 

Over the yellow fields, to the brown fence 
lis hour of {^'olclen heauly — giving still. 
And bill lor tli;it faint ringing from the fort, 
Thai comes just now across the vale to us, 
And this small band of soldiers planted here, 
I could think this was peace, so calmly there, 
The afternoon amid the valley sleeps. 

1.9^ Sliid. Yet in the bosom of this gentle time, 
The crisis of an age-long struggle lieaves. 

2nd Slud. Age-long ? — Why, this land's history can 
scarce 
Be told in ages, yet. 

Is^ Stud. But this war's can. 

In that small isle beyond the sea, Francis, 
Ages, ages ago, its light first blazed. 
This is the war. Old, foolish, blind prerogative. 
In ermines wrapped, and sitting on king's thrones ; 
Against young reason, in a peasant's robe 
His king's brow hiding. For the infant race 
Weaves for itself the chains its manhood scorns, 
(When time hath made them adamant, alas ! — ) 
The reverence of humanity, that gold 
Which makes power's glittering round, ordained of God 
But for the lovely majesty of right, 
Unto a mad usurper, yielding, all, 
Making the low and lawless will of man 
Vicegerent of that law and will divine, 
Who.se image only, reason halh, on earth. 



10 THEBRIDEOF 

This is the struggle :—herc, we'll fight it out. 
'Twas all too narrow and too courtly there ; 
In sight of that old pageantry of power 
We were, in truth, the children of the past, 
Scarce knowing our own time: but here, we stand 
In nature's palaces, and we are men ; — 
Here, grandeur hath no younger dome than this ; 
And now, the strength which brought us o'er the deep, 
Hath grown to manhood with its nurture here, — 
Now that they heap on us abuses, that 
Had crimsoned the first William's cheek, to name, — 
We're ready now — for our last grapple with blind power. 

[E.reunt. 



DIALOGUE II. 

Scene. T/ie same. A group of ragged soldicj^sin co7i- 
fcrcnce. 

"ist Soldier. I am flesh and 'blood myself, as well as 
the rest of you, but there is no use in talking. What 
the devil would you do? — You may talk till dooms-day, 
but what's to hinder us from serving our time out ? — 
and that's three months yet. Ay, there's the point. 
Show me that. 

2nd Sol. Three months ! Ha, thank Heaven mine is 



F R T E 1) W A n 1) . 17 

up to-morrow ; and, I'll icU you wliat, boys, before the 
sun goes down to-morrow night, you will see one Jack 
Richards trudging lioiiie, — trudging home, Sirs ! None of 
your bamboozling, your logic, and your figures. A good 
piece of bread and butter is tiie figure for me. But you 
sliould iiear the Colonel, though, as the time draws 
nigh. Lord ! you'd think I Avas the General at least. 
Humph, says I. 

3d Sol. Ay, ay, — feed you on sugar-candy till they get 
you to sign, and then comes the old shoes and mocca- 
sins. 

2nd Sol. And that's true enough, Ned. I've eaten my- 
self, no less than two very decent pair in the service. I'll 
have it out of Congress yet though, I'll be hanged if I 
don't. None of your figures for me ! I say, boys, I am 
going home. 

1st Sol. Well, go home, and — can't any body else 
breathe? Why don't you answer me, John? — What 
would you have us do ? — 

4//i Sol. Ask WiU Wilson there. 

Ut Sol. Will?— Where is he? 

Ath Sol. There he stands, alongside of the picket there, 
his hands in his pockets, whistling, and looking as wise 
as the dragon. Mind you, there's always something 
pinching at the bottom of that same whistle, though its 
such a don't-care sort of a whistle too. Ask Will, he'll 
teU you. 

2* 



18 THEBRIDEOF 

dd Sol. Ay, Will has been to the new quarters to-day. 
See, he's commg this way. 

5th Sol. And he saw Striker there, Iresh from the Jer- 
seys, come up along with that new General there, yester- 
day. 

3d Sol. General Arnold ? 

5th Sol. Ay, ay, General Arnold it is. 

Gth SoL [AdvancLJig.] I say, boys 

4th Sol. What's the matter, Will ? 

Qth Sol. Do you want to know what they say below ? 

All. Ay, ay, what's the news ? 

6th Sol. All up there. Sirs. A gone horse ! — and he 
that turns his coat first, is the best fellow. 

ith Sol. No ? 

Qth Sol. And shall I tell you what else they say ? 

ithSol. Ay. 

6th Sol. Shall I? 

All Ay, ay. What is it ? 

6^^ Sol. That we are a cowardly, sneaking, good-for- 
nothing pack of poltroons, here in the north. There's 
for you ! There's what you get for your pains, Sirs. 
And for the rest, General Schuyler is to be disgraced, and 

old Gates is to be set over us again, and no matter for 

the rest. See here, boys. Any body coming? See here. 



F K T E D W A R D . 19 

3d »Sol. What has he got there ? 

2nd JSol. The Proclamation ! The Proclamation ! 
Will you be good enough to let me see if there is 
not a picture there somewhere, with an Indian and a 
tomahawk ? 

6ih Sol. Now, Sirs, he thai wants a new coat, and a 
pocket full of money 

3d Sol. That's me fast enough. 

2nd. Sol. If he had mentioned a shirt-sleeve now, or a 
rim to an old hat 

4th Sol. Or a bit of a crown, or so. 

Qth Sol. He that wants a new coat get off from my 

toes, you scoundrel. 

-A?/. Let's see. Let's see. Read — read. 

1th Sol (S'pouting.) "And he that don't want his 
house burned over his head, and his wife and children, 
or his mother and sisters, as the case may be, butchered 
or eaten alive before his eyes " 

3d Sol. Heavens and earth ! It 'ant so though, Wil- 
son, is it ? 

llh Sol. " Is required to present himself at the said vil- 
lage of Skeensborough, on'or before the 20th day of August 
next. Boo — boo — boo — Who but I. Given under my 
hand." — If it is not it — it is something very hke it, I can 
tell you, Sirs. 1 say, boys, the old rogue -wants his neck 
wrung for insulting honest soldiers iu that fashion ; and 
I say that you — for shame. Will Willson* 



20 T U K B R 1 D E F 

4t/( Sol. Hush!— the Colonel! Hush! 

2nd Sol. And who is that proud-looking follow, by his 
side? 

4//a Sol. Hush ! General Arnold. He's a sharp one 
— roll it up — roll it up. 

Q(h Sol. Get out, — you are rumpling it to death. 
( Two American officers are seen close at hand, in a 

bend of the ascoiding road ; the soldiers enter the 

woods.) 



DIALOGUE III. 

Scene. The same. 

1st Officer. I cannot conceal it from you, Sir; there is 
but one feeling about it, as far as I can judge, and I had 
some chances in my brief journey — 

2nd Off. Were you at head-quarters? 

1st Offi. Yes, — and every step of this retreating army 
only makes it more desperate. I never knew any thing 
like the mad, unreasonable terror this army inspires. 
Burgoyne and his Indians ! — ' Bnrgoi/ne and the In- 
dians !^^ — there is not a girl on the banks ol the Con- 
necticut that docs not expect to see them by her father's 
door ere day-break. Colonel Leslie, what were those 
men concealing so carefully as we approached just now ? 
— Did you mark them? 



PORT EDWARD 



21 



2nd Off'. Yes. If I am not nustakcn, it was the 
paper we were speaking of. 

15/ OJf. Ay, ay, — I thought as much. 

2;?(/ Off. General Arnold, I am surprised you should 
do these honest men the injustice to suppose tiiat such 
an impudent, flimsy, bombastic tirade as that same pro- 
clamation of Burgoyne's, should have a feather's weight 
with any mother's son of them. 

Arnold. A feather's, ay a feather's, just so; but when 
the scales arc turning, a feather counts too, and that is 
the predicament just now of more minds than you think 
for, Colonel Leslie. A pretty dark horizon around us just 
now. Sir, — another regiment goes off to-morrow, I hear. 
Hey? 

Leslie. Why, no. At least we hope not. We think 
we shall be able to keep them yet, unless — that paper 
might work some mischief with them perhaps, and it 
would be rather a fatal affair too, I mean in the way of 
example. — These Green Mountain Boys 

Arnold. Colonel Leslie, Colonel Leslie, this army is 
melting away like a snow-wreath. There's no denying 
it. Your General misses it. The news of one brave 
battle would send the good blood to the fingers' ends 
from ten thousand chilled hearts; no matter how fearful 
the odds ; the better, the better,— no matter how large 
the loss ;— for every slain soldier, a hundred better would 
stand on the field ; 

Leslie. But then 



22 THEBKIDEOF 

Arnold. By all that's holy, Sir, if I were head here, 
the red blood should smoke on this grass ere to-morrow's 
sunset. I would have battle here, though none but the 
birds of the air were left to carry the tale to the nation. 
I tell you, Colonel Leslie, a war, whose resources are 
only in the popular feeling, as now, and for months to 
come, this war's must be ; a war, at least, which depends 
wholly upon the unselfishness of a people, as this war 
does, can be kept aHve by excitement only. It was 
wonderful enough indeed, to behold a whole people, the 
low and comfort-loving too, in whose narrow lives that 
little world which the sense builds round us, takes such 
space, forsaking the tangible good of their merry firesides, 
for rags and wretchedness, — poverty that the thought of 
the citizen beggar cannot reach, — the supperless night 
on the frozen field ; with the news perchance of a home 
in ashes, or a murdered household, and, last of all, on some 
dismal day, the edge of the sword o# the sharp bullet 
ending all ; — and all in defence of — what ? — an idea — an 
abstraction, — a thought : — I say this was wonderful 
enough, even in the glow of the first excitement. But 
now that the Jersey winter is fresh in men's memories, 
and Lexington and Bunker Hill are forgotten, and all 
have found leisure and learning to count the cost ; it 
were expecting miracles indeed, to believe that this army 
could hold together with a policy like this. Every step 
of this retreat, I say again, treads out some lingering 
spark of enthusiasm. Own it yourself. Is not this 
array dropping off by hundreds, and desertion too, 



F R T E D W A R D . 23 

increasing every hour, thinning your own ranks and 
swelling your foes ?— and that, too, at a crisis — Colonel 
Leslie, retreat a little further, some fifty miles further ; 
let Burgoyne once set foot in Albany, and the business 
is done, — we may roll up our pretty declaration as fast 
as we please, and go home in peace. 

Leslie. General Arnold, I have heard you to the 
end, though you have spoken insultingly of councils in 
which 1 have had my share. Will you look at this little 
clause in this paper, Sir. The excitement you speak of 
will come ere long, and that at a rate less ruinous than 
this whole army's loss. There's a line— there's aline, 
Sir, that will make null and void, very soon, if not on 
the instant, all the evil of these golden promises. 
There'll be excitement enough ere long; but better blood 
than that shed in battle fields must flow to waken it. 

Arnold. I hardly understand you, Sir. Is it this threat 
you point at? 

Leslie. Can't you see ?— They have let loose these 
hell-hounds upon us, and butchery must be sent into our 
soft and innocent homes ;— beings that we have sheltered 
from the air of heaven, brows that have grown pale at 
the breath of an ungentle word, must meet the red knife 
of the Indian now. Oh God, this is war ! 

Arnold. I understand you, Colonel LesHe. There 
was a crisis like thi^in New Jersey last winter, I know, 
when our people were flocking to the royal standard, as 



24 THEBRIDEOF 

they are now, and a few fiendish outrages on the part of 
the foe changed the whole current in our favor. It may 
be so now, but meanwhile — 

Leslie. Meanwhile, this army is the hope of the 
nation, and must be preserved. We are wronged, Sir. 
Have wc not done all that men could do? What were 
twenty pitched battles to such an enemy, with a force 
like ours, compared with the liarm we have done them ? 
Have we not kept them loitering here among these hills, 
wasting the strength that was meant to tell in the qui- 
vering fibres of men, on senseless trees and stones, 
paralyzing them with famine, wearying them with un- 
exciting, inglorious toil, until, divided and dispirited, at 
last we can measure our power Avith theirs, and fight, 
not in vain 1 Why, even now the division is planning 
there, which will bring them to our feet. And what to 
us, Sir, were the hazards of one bloody encounter, to 
the pitiful details of this unhonored warfare ? — Wc are 
wronged — we are wronged. Sir. 

Arnold. There is some policy in the plan you speak 
ofj — certainly, there is excellent policy in it if one had 
the patience to follow it out ; but then you can't make 
Congress see it, or the people either ; and so, after all, 
your General is superseded. Well, well, at all events he 
must abandon this policy now, — it's the only chance left 
for him. 

Jjeslie. Why; howso? 



r R T E D \V A H U . 26 

Arnold. Or els o, don't you see? — just at the point 
where the glory appears, this eastern hero steps io, 
and receives it ail J and the laurels which he has been 
rearing so long, blow just in time to drop on the brow of 
his rival. 

Leslie. General Arnold, — excuse me, Sir — you do 
not understand the man of whom you speak. There 
is a substance in the glory he aims at, to which, 
all that you call by the name is as the mere shell 
and outermost rind. Good Heavens ! Do you think 
that, for the sake of his own individual fame, the 
man would risk the fate of this great enterprize ? — What 
a mere fool's bauble, what an empty shell of honor, 
would that be. If I thought he would — 

Arnold. It might be well for you to lower your voice 
a little, Sir ; the gentleman of whom you are speaking is 
just at hand. 

[^Other officers are seen emerging from the woods-l 

3d OJf. Yes, if this rumor holds, Lieutenant Van 
Vechten, your post is likely to become one of more honor 
than safety. Gentlemen — Fla ! — General Arnold ! You 
are heartily welcome ; — I have been seeking you, Sir. 
If this news is any thing, the movement that was plan- 
ned for Wednesday, we must anticipate somewhat. 

Leslie. News from the enemy, General ? 
Gen. Schuyler. Stay — those scouts must be coming 
3 



26 T HE B R I D K OF 

in, Van Vcchten. Why, wc can scarnc call it news yet, I 
suppose; but if this countryman's tale is true, Burgoyne 
himself, with his main corps, is encamping at this moment 
at the Mills, scarce three miles above us. 

Arnold. Ay, and g-ood news loo. 

Leslie. But that cannot be. Sir — Alaska — 

Gen. Schuyler. Alaska has brolun faith with us if it is, 
and the army have avoided the delay we had planned 
for them. — That may he. — This man overheard their 
scouts in the woods just hi'low us here. 

Arnold. And if it is, — do you tallc of retreat, General 
Schuyler? In your power now it lies, with one hour's 
work perchance, to make those lying enemies of yours 
in Congress eat the dust, to clear (ov ever your blackened 
fame. Why, Heaven itself is interfering to do you riglit, 
and throwing honor in your Avay as it were ! Do you talk 
of retreat, Sir, now ? 

Gen. Schuyler. Heaven has otluT work on hand just 
now, than righting thewrongs of such heroes as you and I, 

Sir. Colonel Arnold 1 beg your pardon. Sir, Congress 

has done you justice at last I see, — General Arnold, you 
are right as to the consequence, yet, for all that, if this 
news is true, I must order the retreat. My reputation 
I'll trust in God's hands. My honor is in my own keep- 
ing. 

[Ea'cunt Schnylery Leslie, and Van Vecliten. 



V H r f; 1) w A i{ D . 27 

Arnold. TIkmc^s a snioko IVoni that chimney; are 
those houses inhabited, rny boy ? 

Boy. Part of them, Sir. Some of our people wcntofl 
to-day. That white house by the orchard — the old par- 
sonage there ? Ay, there are ladies there Sir, but I heard 
Colonel Leslie sayinj,' this morning 'twas a sin and a 
shame for tliem to stay another hour. 

Arnold. Ay, Ay. I fancied the Colonel was not deal- 
ing in abstractions just now. {^Exeunt. 



DIALOGUE IV. 



[ScENK. A room in the Parsonage, — an old-fa fthioncd 
summer parlor. — On the side a door and windows 
opening into an orchard, in front, a yard filled with 
shade trees. The view beyond hounded by a hill 
partly wooded. A young girl, in the picturesque 
costume of the time, lies sleeping on the antique sofa. 
Annie sils by a table, covered with coarse needle- 
work, humming snatches of songs as she works. 



28 THEnRIDEOF 

Annie, (singing.) 
Sofi peace spreads her icings andjiies weeping ait ay. 
Soft peace spreads her icings and. flies weeping away. 
And flies weeping away. 

The red cloud of war o^cr oicr forest is scowling, 
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away. 

Come blow the shrill bugle, the war dogs are howl- 
ing, 
Already they eagerly smifl" out their prey — 

The red cloud of war — the red cloud of war — 
Yes, let me see now, — with a little plotting this might 
make two— two, at least. — and then — 

Tlic red cloud of war o'er our forest is scowling. 
Soft peace spreads her wings and flies weeping away. 

The infants affrighted cling close to their mothers, 
7^e youths grasp their sicords, and for combat pre- 
pare ; 

While beauty weeps fathers, and lovers, and brothers, 
Who are gone to defend — 

—Alas ! what a golden, delicious afternoon is blowing 
without there, wasting for ever ; and never a glimpse of 
it. Delicate work this ! Here's a needle might serve for 
a genuine stiletto ! No matter, — it is the cause, — it is 
the cause that makes, as my mother says, each stitch in 
this clumsy fabric a grander thing than the flashing of 
the bravest lance that brave knight ever won. 
(Singing) The hrools are talking in the dell, 
Vul la lul, tul la lul, 



PORTEDWARD. 29 

T/te brooks are talking low, and sweet, 
Under the boughs where th' arches meet ; 
Come to the dell, come to the dell, 
Oh come, come. 

The birds are singing in the dell, 
Wee wee whoo, wee wee whoo ; 
The birds are singing loild and free, 
In every bough of the forest tree, 
Come to the dell, come to the dell, 
Oh com come. 

And there the idle breezes lie, 
Whispering, whispering, 
Whispering with the laughing leaves. 
And nothing says each idle breeze. 
But come, come, come, O lady come, 
Coyne to th^ dell. 

[^Mrs. Grey enters from without.'] 
Mrs. G. Do not sing, Annie. 

Annie. Crying would better befit the times, I know,— 
Dear mother, what is this ? 

Mrs. G. Hushj— asleep— is she ? 

Annie. This hour, and quiet as an infant. Need 
enough there was of it too. See, what a perfect damask 
mother ! 

Mrs. G. Draw the curtain on that sunshine there. 

This sleep has flushed her. Ay, a painter might have 

dropped that golden hair,— yet this delicate beauty is but 

the martyr's wreath now, with its fine nerve and 

3* 



30 T H E B R I D E F 

shrinking helplessness. Ko, Annie ; put away your hat, 
my love, — you cannot go to the lodge to-night. 

Annie. Mother? 

Mrs. G. You cannot go to the glen to-night. This is 
no lime for idle pleasure, God knows. 

Annie. Why, you have been weeping in earnest, and 
your cheek is pale. — And now I know where that sad 
appointment led you. Is it over ? That it should be in 
our humanity to bear, what in our ease we cannot, cannot 
think of! 

Mrs. G. Harder things for humanity are there than 
bodily anguish, sharp though it be. It was not the boy, — 
the mother's anguish, I wept for, Annie. 

Annie. Poor Endross ! And he will go, to his dymg 
day, a crippled thing. But yesterday I saw him spring- 
ing by so proudly ! And the mother——- 

Mrs. G. " Words, words,^'' she answered sternly 
when I tried to comfort her : " ay, words are easy. 
Wait till you see your own chikVs blood. Wait till you 
stand by and see his young limbs hewn away, and the 
groans come thicker and thicker that you cannot soothe ; 
and then let them prate to you of the good cause." 
Bitter words ! God knows what is in store for us ; — all 
day this strange dread has clung to me. 

Annie. Dear mother, is not this the superstition you 
were wont to chide 1 



FORT EDWARD. 31 

Mrs. G. Ay, ay, we should have been in Albany ere 
this. In these wild times, Annie, every chance-blown 
straw that points at evil, is likely to prove a faithful in- 
dex; and if it serve to nerve the heart for it, we may call 
it heaven-sent indeed. Annie,— hear me calmly, my 
child,— the enemy, so at least goes the rumor, are nearer 
than we counted on this morning, and — hush, not a word. 

Annie. She is but dreaming. Just so she murmured 
in her sleep last night ; twice she waked me with the 
saddest cry, and after that she sat all night by the win- 
dow in her dressing-gown, I could not persuade her to 
sleep again. Tell me, mother, you say a?icZ— and what ? 

^f^.9. G. I cannot think it true, 'tis rumored though, 
that these savage neighbors of ours have joined the 
enemy. 

Annie. No ! no ! Has Alaska turned against us ? 
Why, it was but yesterday I saw him with Leslie in 
yonder field. 'Tis false ; it must be. Surely he could 
not harm us. 

Mrs. G. And false, I trust it is. At least till it is 
proved otherwise, Helen must not hear of it. 

Annie. And why ? 

Mrs. Grey. She needs no caution, and it were useless 
to add to the idle fear with which she regards them all, 
already. Some dark fancy possesses her to-day ; I have 
marked it myself. 

Annie. It is just two years to-morrow, mother, sine 



32 T n E B R I D E F 

Helen's wedding day, or rather, that sad day that should 
have seen her bridal; and it cannot be that she has quite 
forgotten Everard Maitland. Alas, he seemed so noble ! 

Mrs. G. Hush ! Never name him. Your sister is 
too high-hearted to waste a thought on him. Tory ! 
Helen is no love-lorn damsel, child, to pine for an un- 
worthy love. See the rose on that round cheek, — it 
might teach that same haughty loyalist, could he see her 
now, what kind of hearts 'tis that we patriots wear, 
whose strength they think to trample. Where are you 
going, Annie ? 

Annie. Not beyond the orchard-wall. I will only 
stroll down the path here, just to breathe this lovely air 
a little J indeed, there's no Icar of my going further now. 

{ExiU 

Mrs. G. Did I say right, Helen ? It cannot be feign- 
ed. Those quick smiles, with their thousand, lovely 
meanings ; those eyes, whose beams lead straight to the 
smiling soul. Principle is it ? There is no principle in 
this, but joy, or else it strikes so deep, that the joy grows 
ap from it, genuine, .tut feigned ; and yet I have found 
her weeping once or twice of late, in unexplained agony. 
Helen ! 

Helen. Oh mother ! is it you ? Thank God. I 
thought 

Mrs. G. What did you think? What moves you 
thus? 



F n T E D W A R D . 33 

Helen. I thought — 'tis nothing. This is very strange. 

Mrs. G. Why do you look through that window thus ? 
There's no one there ! What is it that's so strange ? 

Helen. Is it to-morrow that we go ? 

Mrs. G. To Albany ? Why, no; on Thursday. You 
are bewildered, Helen ! surely you could not have for- 
gotten that. 

Helen. I wish it was to-day. I do. 

Mrs. G. My child, yesterday, when the question was 
debated here, and wishing might have been of some 
avail, 'tis true you did not say much, but I thought, and 
so we all did, that you chose to stay. 

Helen. Did you? Mother, does the road to Albany 
wind over a hill like that ? 

Mrs. G. Like what, Helen ? 

Helen. Like yonder wooded hill, where the soldiers 
are stationed now ? 

Mrs. G. Not that I know of? Why ? 

Helen. Perhaps we may cross that very hill, — no — 
could we ? 

Mrs. G. Not unless we should turn refugees, my 
love; an event of which there ishttle danger just now, I 
think. That road, as indeed you know yourself, leads 
out directly to the British camp. 



34 



THE BRIDE OF FORT EDWARD. 



Helen. Yes — yes — it does. I know it does. I will 
not yield to it. 'Tis folly, all. 

Mrs. G. You talk as though you were dreaming still, 
my child. Put on your hat, and go into the garden for 
a little, the air is fresh and pleasant now ; or take a ramble 
through the orchard if you will, you might meet Annie 
there, — no, yon she conies, and well too. It's quite 
tune that I were gone again. I wish that we had nothing 
worse than dreams on hand. Helen, I must talk with 
you about these fancies ; you must not thus unnerve 
yourself for real evil. \^Exit. 

Helen. It were impossible, — it could not be! — how 
could it be ? — Oh ! these are wild times. Unseen powers 
are crossing their meshes here around us, — and, what 
am I % — Powers ? — there's but one Power, and that — 

" He careth for the little bird, 

Far in the lone wood's depths, and thoughMark weapons 

And keen eyes are out, it falleth not 

But at his Avill. lEait. 



PART SECOND. 



jLi®wma 



DIALOGUE I. 

Scene. A little glen in the woods near Fort Edward. 
A young British Officer appears^ attended, by a sol- 
dier in the American uniform ; the latter xcith a small 
sealed pacquet in his hand. 

Off. Hist ! 

Sol Well, so I did ; but 

Off. Hist, I say ! 

Sol. A squirrel it is, Sir; there he sits. 

Off. By keeping this path you avoid the picket on 
the hill. It will bring you out where these woods skirt 
the vale, and scarcely a hundred rods from the house 
itself. 



36 THEBRIDEOF 

[Calling without.'] 

Sol. Captain Andre— Sir. 

Off". It were well that the pacquet should fall into no 
other hands. With a little caution there is no danger. 
It will be twilight ere you get out of these woods — 

Sol. I beg your pardon, Sir ; but here is that young 
Indian guide of mine, after all, above there, beckoning me. 

Off. Stay — you wiU come back to the camp ere mid- 
night ? 

Sol. Unless some of these quick-eyed rebels see through 
my disguise. 

Off. Do not forget the lodge as you return. A little 
hut of logs just in the edge of the woods, but Siganaw 
knows it well. [Ea:it the Soldier. 

( The call in the thicket above is repeated, and ano- 
ther young officer enters the glen.) 

2nd Off. Hillo, Maitland ! These woods yield fairies, 
— come this way. 

1st Off. For God's sake, Andre! {motioning silence.) 
Are you mad ? 

Andre. Well, who are they ? 

Mait. Who? Have you forgotten that we are on the 
enemy's ground ? Soldiers from the fort, no doubt. 
They have crossed that opening twice since we stood 
here. 



F R T E DW A R D . 37 

Andre. Well, let them cross twice more. I would run 
the risk of a year's captivity, at least, for one such glimpse. 
Nay, come, she will be gone. 

Mait. Stay, — not yet. There, again! 

Andre. Such a villainous scratching as I got in that 
pass just now. It must have cost the rogues an infinite 
deal of pains though. A regular, handsome sword-cut 
is nothing to a dozen of these same ragged scratches, 
that a man can't swear about. After all. Captain Mait- 
land, these cunning Yankees understand the game. 
They will keep out of our way, slyly enough, until we 
are starved, and scratched, and fretted down to their pro- 
portions, meanwhile they league the very trees against us. 

Mait. As to that, ^e have made some leagues our- 
selves, I think, quite as hard to be defended, Sir. 

Andre. It may be so. Should we not be at the river 
by this 1 

Mait. Sunset was the time appointed. We are as 
safe here, till then. 

Andre. 'Tis a little temple of beauty you have lighted 
on, in truth. These pretty singers overhead, seem to 
have no guess at our hostile errand. Methinks their 
peaceful warble makes too soft a welcome for such war- 
like comers. Hark ! [ Whistling.] That's American. 
One might win bloodless laurels here. Will you stand 
a moment just as you are, Maitland j — 'tis the very thing. 
There's a little space in my unfinished picture, and with 
4 



38 T H E B R I D E F 

that a la Kemble mien, you were a fitting mate for tliis 
young Dian here, {taking a pencil sketch from his port' 
/oho,)— the beauty-breathing, ay, beauty -breathing, it's no 
poetry ; — for the lonesome little glen smiled to its darkest 
nook with her presence. 

Mait. What are you talking of, Andre ? Fairies and 
goddesses ! — What next ? 

Andre. I am glad you grow a little curious at last. 
Why I say, and your own eyes may make it good if you 
will, that just down in this glen below here, not a hun- 
dred rods hence, there sits, or stands, or did some fifteen 
minutes since, some creature of these woods, I suppose 
it is; what else could it be? Well, well, I'll call no 
names, since they offend you, Sir ; tut this I'll say, a young 
ch»ek and smiling lip it had, whate'er it was, and 
round and snowy arm, and dimpled hand, that lay 
ungloved on her sylvan robe, and eyes — I tell you plain- 
ly, they lighted all the glen. 

Matt. Ha ? A lady ? — there 1 Are you in earnest ? 

Andre. A lady, well you would call her so perchance. 
Such ladies used to spring from the fairy nut-shells, in the 
old time, when the kings' son lacked a bride ; and if this 
were Windsor forest that stretches about us here, I might 
'fancy, perchance, some royal one had wandered out, to 
cool the day's glow in her cheek, and nurse her love- 
dream ; but here, in this untrodden wilderness, unless 
your ladies here si>ring up like flowers, or drop down on 



FORT EDWARD 



39 



invisible pinions from above, how, in the name of reason, 
came she here? 

Mait. On the invisible pinions of thine own lady- 
loving fancy ; none otherwise, trust me. 

Andre. Come, come,— see for yourself. On my word 
I was a little startled though, as my eye first lighted on 
her, suddenly, in that lonesome spot. There she sat, so 
bright and still, like some creature of the leaves and 
waters, such as the old Greeks fabled, that my first 
thought was to worship her ; my next— of you, but I 
could not leave the spot until I had sketched this ; I 
stood unseen, within a yard of her ; for I could see her 
soft breath stirring the while. See, the scene itself was 
a picture,— the dark glen,'the lonesome little lodge, on the 
very margin of the fairy lake— here she sat, motionless 
as marble ; this bunch of roses had dropped from her 
listless hand, and you would have thought some tragedy 
of ancient sorrow, were passing before her, in the invisi- 
ble element, with such a fixed and lofty sadness she 
gazed into it. But of course, of course, it is nothing to 
your eye ; for me, it will serve to bring the whole out at 
my leisure. Indeed, the air, I think, I have caught a little 

as it is. 

Mait. A little— you may say it. She is there, is she ? 
—sorrowful; well, what is't to me ? 

Andre. What do you say I—There?— Yes, I left her 
there at least. Com"e, come. I'll show you one will 



40 



THE B K I D E OF 



teach you to unlearn this fixed contempt of gentle wo- 
man. Come. 

Mait. Let go, if you please, Sir. She who gave me 
my first lesson in that art, is scarcely the one to bid me 
now unlearn it, and I want no new teaching as yet, 
thank Heaven. Will you come? We have loitered 
here long enough, I think. 

Andre. What, under the blue scope — what the devil 
ails you, Maidand ? 

Mait. Nothing, nothing. This much- I'll say to you, 
— that lady is my wife. 

Andre. Nonsense ! 

Mait. There lacked — three days, I think it was, three 
whole days, to the time when the law would have given 
her that name ; but for all that, was she mine, and is ; 
Heaven and earth cannot undo it. 

A7inre. Are you in earnest? Why, are we not here 
in the very heart of a most savage wilderness, where 
never foot of man trod before, — unless you call these 
wild red creatures men ? 

Mait. You talk wildly; that path, followed a few 
rods further, would have brought you out within sight of 
her mother's door. 

Andre. Ha ! you have been in this wilderness then, 
ere now? 

Mait. Have you forgotten the fortune I wasted once 



FORTEDWARD. 41 

on a summer's scat, some few miles up, on the lake above ? 
These Yankees did me the grace to burn it, just as the 
war broke out. 

Andre. Ay, ay, that was here. I had forgotten the 
whereabouts. Those blackened ruins we passed last 
evening, perchance ; — and the lady — my wood-nymph, 
what of her? 

Mail. Captain Andre, I beg your pardon. Sir. That 
sketch of yours reminded me, by chance perhaps, of one 
with whom some painful passages of my life are linked ; 
and I said, in my haste, what were better left unsaid. 
Do me the favor not to remind me that I have done so. 

Andre. So — so ! And I am to know nothing more of 
this smiling apparition ; nay, not so much as to speak 
her name? Consider, Maitland, I am your friend it is 
true J but, prithee, consider the human in me. Give her 
a local habitation, or at least a name. 

Mail. I have told you already that the lady you speak 
of resides not far hence. On the border of these woods 
you may see her home. I may point it out to you se- 
curely, some few days hence; — to-night, unless you 
would find yourself in the midst of the American army, 
this must content you. 

Andre. A wild risk for a creature like that ! Have 
these Americans no safer place to bestow their daughters 
than the fastnesses of this wilderness ? 
4* 



42 T H E B R I D E O F 

Mail. It would seem so. Yd it is her home. Wild 
as it looks here, from the lop of that hill, where our men 
came out on the picket just now so suddenly, you will 
see as fair a picture of cultured life as e'er your eyes 
looked on. No English horizon frames a lovelier one. 

Andre. Ilerel No! 

Mait. Between that hill and the fort, there stretches a 
wide and beautiful plain, covered with orchards and mea- 
dows to the wood's edge ; and here and there a gentle 
swell, crowned with trees, some patch of the old wilder- 
ness. The infant Hudson winds through it, circling in 
its deepest bend one lillle fairy isle, with woods enough 
for a single bower, and a beauty that fills and character- 
izes, to its remotest line, the varied landscape it centres ; 
and far away in the east, this same azure mountain-chain 
we have traced so long, with its changeful light and 
shade, fmishes the scene. 

Andre. You should have been a painter, Maitland. 

Mait. The lirsttime I beheld it — one summer evening 
it was, from the woods on the hill's brow ; — we were a 
hunting party, I had lost my way, and ere 1 knew it 
there I stood ; — its waters lay glittering in the sunset 
light, and the window-panes of its quiet dwellings were 
flashing like gold, — the old brown houses looked out 
through the trees like so many lighted palaces; and even 
the little hut of logs, nestling on the wood's edge, bor- 
rowed beauty from the hour. I was miles from home ; 



r U T E D W A U D . 43 

but the setting sun could not warn me away from such 
a paradise, for si> it seemed, set in that howUng wilder- 
ness, and 

Andre. Prithee, go on. I listen. 

Mail. I know not how it was, but as I wandered slow- 
ly down the shady road, for the first time in years of 
worldliness, the dream that had haunted my boyhood re- 
vived again. Do you know what I mean, Andre?— that 
dim yearning for lovelier beings and fairer places, whose 
ideals lie in the heaven-fitted mind, but not iu the wil- 
derness it wakes in; that mystery of our- nature, that 
overlooked as it is, and trampled with unmeaning things 
so soon, hides, after all, the whole secret of this life's dark 
enigma. 

Andre. But see,— our time is well-nigh gone, — this is 
philosophy— I would have heard a love tale. 

Mail. It was tiien, that near me, suddenly I heard the 
voice that made this dull, real world, thenceforth a richer 
place for me than the gorgeous dream-land of childhood 
was of old. 

Andre. Ay, ay— go on. 

Mail. Andre, did you ever meet an eye, in which the 
intelligence of our nature idealized, as it were, the very 
poetry of human thought seemed to look forth ? 

Andre. One such. 

Mail. —That reflected your whole being; nay, reveal- 



44 TH E B RID EOF 

ed from its mysterious depths, new consciousness, that 
yet seemed like a faint memory, the trs^ces of some old 
and pleasant dream ? 

Andre. Methinks the heavenly revelation itself doth that. 

Mait. Such an eye I saw then shining on me. A 
clump of stately pines grew on the sloping road-side, and, 
looking into its dark embrasure, I beheld a group of mer- 
ry children around a spring that gurgled out of the hill- 
side there, and among them, there sat a young girl clad 
in white, her hat on the bank beside her, tying a wreath 
of wild flowers. That was all— that was all, Andre. 

Andre. Well, she was beautiful, 1 suppose ? Nay, if it 
was the damsel I met just now I need not ask. 

Mait. Beautiful ? Ay, tliey called her so. Beauty 
I had seen before ; but from that hour the sun shone with 
another light, and the very dust and stones of this dull 
earth were precious to me. Beautiful 7 Nay, it was 
she. I knew her in an instant, the spirit of my being ; 
she whose existence made the lovely whole, of which 
mine alone had been the worthless and despised frag- 
ment. There are a thousand women on the earth the 
artist might call as lovely,— show me another that I can 
worship. 

Andre. Worship! This is Captain Everard Mait- 
land. If I should shut my eyes now 

Mait. Well, go on ; but I tell you, ne'ertheless, there 



PORTED WARD. 45 

have been times, even in this very spot, — we often wan- 
dered here when the day was dying as it is now, — here 
in her soft, breathing loveliness, she has stood beside me, 
when I have. — worshipped? — nay, feared her, in her 
holy beauty, as we two should an angel who should 
come through that glade to us now. 

Andre. True it is, something of the Divinity there is 
in beauty, that, in its intenser forms, repels with all its 
winningness, until the lowliness of love looks through it. 
Well — you worshipped her. 

Mait. Nay, you have told the rest. I would have wor- 
shipped ; but one day there came a look from those beau- 
tiful eyes, when I met them suddenly, with a gaze that 
sought the mystery of their beauty, — a single look, and 
in an instant the drooping lash had buried it forever; 
but I knew, ere it fell, that the world of her young being 
was all mine already. Another life had been forever 
added unto mine; a whole creation ; yet, like Eden's 
fairest, it but made another perfect ; a new and purer 
self', and in it grew the heaven, and the fairy-land of 
my old dreams, lovelier than ever. You have loved 
yourself, Andre, else I should weary you. 

Andre. Not a bit the more do I understand you 
though. You talk mostlover-hke; that's very clear, yet I 
must say I never saw the part worse played. Why, 
here's your ladye-love, this self-same idol of whom you 
rave, at this moment perchance, breathing within these 



46 THEBRIDEOF 

woods, — years too — two mortal years it must be, since 
you have seen her face ; and yet — you stand here yet, 
with folded arms ; — a goodly lover, on my word ! 

Mail. Softly, Sir! you grace mc with a title to which 
I can lay no claim. Lover I was^ may be. I am no 
lover now, not I — not I ; you are right ; I would not walk 
to that knoll's edge to see the lady. Sir. 

Andre. Well, I must wait your leisure, I see. 

Mail. And yet, the lasc time that we stood together 
here, her arm lay on mine, my promised wife. A few 
days more, and by my name, all that loveliness had gone. 
There needed only that to make that tie holy in all 
eyes, the liolicst which the universe held for us ; but 
needed there that, or any tiling to make it such in ours. 
Why, love lay in her eye, that evening, like religion, 
solemn and calm. — We should have smiled then at 
the thought of any thing in height or depth, ending, what 
through each instant seemed to breathe eternity from 
its own essence ; — we were one, one, — that trite word 
makes no meaning in your ear, — to me, life's roses burst 
from it ; music, sunshine, Araby, should image what it 
means ; what it meant rather, for it is over. 

Andre. What was it, Maitland ? 

Mait. Oh, — well, — she did not love me ; that was all. 
So far my story has told the seeming only, but ere long 
the trial came, and then I found it was seeming, in good 
sooth. The Rebellion had then long been maturing, as 



FORTEDWARD. il' 

you know ; but just then came the crisis. It was the 
one theme everywhere. Of course I took my king's 
part against these rebels, and at once I was outraged, 
wronged beyond all human bearing. Her mad brotherj 
her's, her''s what a world of preciousness, Andre, that lit- 
tle word once enshrined for me ; and still it seems like 
some broken vase, fragrant with what it held. 

> Andre. And ever with that name, a rosy flash 

Paints, for an instant, all my world. 
Nay, 'tis a little love-poem of my own ; go on, Maitland, 

Mait. This brother I say, quarrelled with me, though 
I had borne from him unresentingly, what from another 
would have seemed insult. We quarrelled at last, and 
the house was closed against me, or would have been 
had I sought access; fori walked sternly by its pleasant 
door that afternoon, though I remember now how the 
very roses that o'erhung the porch, the benche^ and 
shaded porch, that lovely lingering place, seemed to 
beckon me in. It was a breathless summer day, and the 
vine curled in the open window,— even now those lowly 
rooms make a brighter image of heaven to me than the 
jewelled walls that of old grew in the pageant of our 
sabbath dreams. 

Andre. And thus you abandoned your love? A quar- 
rel with her brother ? 

Mait I never wronged her with the shadow of a 
doubt. Directly, that same day, I wrote to her to fix 



48 



THE BRIDE OP 



our meeting elsewhere, that we might renew our bro- 
ken plans in some fitter shape for the altered times. 
She sent me a few lines of grave refusal. Sir ; and the 
next letter was returned unopened. 

Andre. 'Twas that brother ! Pshaw ! 'twas that bro- 
ther, Maitland. I'll lay my life the lady saw no word 
of it. 

Mail. I might have thought so too, perchance ; but that 
same day, — the morning had brought the news from Bos- 
ton, — I met her by chance, by the spring in the little grove 
where we first met ; and— Good Heavens ! she talked of 
brothers ! Brothers, mother, sisters! — What was their 
right to mine ? All that the round world holds, or the 
universe, what could it be to her ? — that is, if she had 
loved me ever; which, past all doubt, she never did. 

Andre. Maitland ! Heavjus, how this passion blinds 
you ! And you expected a gentle, timid girl like that to 
abandon all she loved. Nay, to make her home in the 
very camp, where death and ruin unto all she loved, was 
the watchword 1 

Mail. I beg your pardon. Sir. I looked for no such 
thing. I offered to renounce my hopes of honor here for 
her ; a whole life's plans, for her sake I counted nothing. 
I offered her a home in England too, the very real of her 
girlhood's wish; my blighted fortunes since, or a home 
in yonder camp,— never, never. But if I had, ay, if I 



FORTEDWARD. 49 

had, — that is not love, call it what you will, it is not love, 
to whicli such barriers were any thing. 

Andre. Oh well, a word's a word. That's as one 
likes. Only with your definition, give me leave to say, 
marvellous little love, Captain Maitland, marvellous little 
you will find in this poor world of ours. 

Mail. I'll grant ye. 

Andre. If there is any thing like it outside of a poet's 
skull, ne'er credit me. 

Matt. Strange it should take such shape in the creat- 
ing thought and in the yearning heart, when all reality 
hath not its archetype. 

Andre. Hist ! 

Mait. A careful step,— one of our party I fancy. 

Andre. 'Tis time we were at the rendezvous. If we 
have to recross the river as we came, on the stumps of 
that old bridge, we had best keep a little day-Hght with 
us, I think. {Exeunt. 



50 T H E B R 1 D E O F 



DIALOGUE II. 

Scene. A chamber in the Parsonage. Helenleaning 
from the open window, 

Annie enters. 

Annie. Helen Grey, where on earth have you been 1 
Woodjlowers! 

Helen. Come and look at this sunset. 

Annie. Surely you have not, you cannot have been in 
those woods, Helen: and yet, where else could this peri- 
winkle grow, and these wild roses? — Delicious ! 

Helen. Hear that flute. It comes from among those 
trees by the river side. 

Annie. It is the shower that has freshened every 
thing, and made the birds so musical. You should 
stand in the door below, as I did just now, to see the fort 
and the moistened woods stands out from that black sky, 
with all this brightness blazing on them. 

Helen. 'Tis lovely— all. 

Annie. There goes the last golden rim over the black- 
ening woods ; already even a shade of tender mourning 
steals over all things, the very children's voices under this 
tree, — how soft they grow. 



FORT EDWARD. 51 

Helen. Will the day come when we shall see him 
sink, for the last time, behind those hills ? 

Annie. Nay, Helen, why do you mar this lovely hour 
with a thought like that? 

Helen. And in another life, shall we see light, when 
his, for us, shines no more? — What sound is that ? 

Annie. That faint cry from the woods ? 

Helen. No, — more distant, — far off as the horizon, like 
some mighty murmur, faintly borne, it came. 

Annie. I wish that we had gone to-day. I do not 
like this waiting until Thursday ;— just one of that elder 
brother's foolish whims it was. I cannot think how your 
consent was won to it. Did you meet any one in your 
walk just now ? 

Helen. No — Yes, yes, I did. The little people where 
I went, I met by hundreds, Annie. Through the dark 
aisles, and the high arches, all decked in blue, and gold, 
and crimson, they sung me a most merry welcome. 
And such as these — see — You cannot think 'how like 
long-forgotten friends they looked, smiling up from their 
dark homes, upon me. 

Annie. You have had chance enough to forget them 
indeed, — it is two years, Helen, since you have been in 
those woods before. What could have tempted you there 
to-day ? 

Helen. Was there danger then ? — was there danger 



52 THEBRIDEOF 

indeed ? — I was by the wood-side ere I knew it, and 
then, — it was but one last look I thought to take — nay, 
what is it, Annie ? George met me as I was coming 
home, and I remember something in his eye startled me 
at first ; but if there was danger, I should have known of 
it before. 

Annie. How could we dream of your going there 
this evening, when we knew you had neyer set your 
foot in those woods since the day Everard Maitland lett 
Fort Edward? 

Helen. Annie ! 

Annie. For me, I would as soon have looked to see 
Maitland himself coming from those woods, as you. 

Helen. Annie ! Annie Grey ! You must not, my sis- 
ter — do not speak that name to me, never again, never. 

Annie. Why, Helen, I am sorry to have grieved you 
thus ; but I thought — Look ! look ! There go those offi- 
cers again, — there, in the lane between the orchards. 
Scarcely half an hour ago they went by to the fort in 
just such haste. There is something going on there, I 
am sure. 

(Helen rises from the vindoir, and walks the room. 

Annie. In truth there was a rumor this afternoon, — 
you are so timid and fanciful, our mother chose you 
should not hear it while it was rumor only ; but 'tis said 
that a party of the enemy have been seen in those woods 



r K T V. I) W A R 1) . 53 

lo-day, and, iimon<^ thom, the Indians wo liave counted 
so friendly. Do you hear inc, Helen ? 

Helen. That he should //vc still! Yes, it is all real 
still! That heaven of my thought, that grows so like a 
pai^eant to me, is still rciil somewhere, Thos(^ eyes — 
they are darkly shining now; this very moment that 
passes ???c, drinks their beauty ; — that voice, — that tone, — 
that very tone — on some careless ear, even now it wastes 
its luxury of blessing. Continents ot hail and darkness, 
the polar seas — all earth's distance, could never have 
parted mc from him; but now I live in the same world 
with him, and the everlasting walls blacken between 
us. Those looks may shine on the dull earth and sense- 
less stones, but not on rae; on uncaring eyes, but not on 
mine ; though for one moment of their lavished wealth, 
I could cheaply give a life without them; never again, 
never, never, never shall their love come to me. 

Annie. Who would have ihouglit she could cherish in 
secret a grief like this? Dear sister, we all believed 
you had forgotten that sad affair long ago, — we thought 
that you were happy now. 

Helen. Happy ? — lam, you were right; but I have been 
to-day down to the very glen where we took that last 
lovely walk together, and all the beautiful past came 
back to me like life. — I am happy ; you must count me 
so still. 

Annie. With what I have just now heard, how can I ? 

Helen. It is this war that has parted us ; and so, this 



54 THE Rn 1 DE o r 

is but my part in these noble and suflfering times, and 
that great thought reaches overall my anguish. But for 
this war I niiglit have been — liath this Avorld such llow- 
ers, and do they call it a wilderness? — I might have been, 
even now, you know it, Annie, his wife, his wife, his. 
But our hearts are cunningly made, many-utinged; and 
often much gocul music is U'fl in them when we count 
them broken. That which makes the bitterness of this 
lot, the inconceivable, unutterable bitterness of it, even 
that 1 can bear now, calmly, and count it Clod's kindness 
too. 

Amiie. I do not understand you, sister. 

ITclcn. What if this young royalist, Annie, when he 
quarrelled M'ith my brother, and took arms against my 
country, what if he iuul k(>j)t faith to mc? 

Annie. Well. 

Helen. Weill Oh no, it would not have been well. 
Why, my home would have been with that pursuing 
army now, my fate bound up with that hollow cause, — 
these very hands might have fastened the sword of op- 
pression ; nay, the sword whose edge was turned against 
you, against you all, and against the cause, that with 
tears, night and morning, you were praying for, and with 
your heart's best blood stood ready to seal every hour. 
No, it is best as it is ; or if my Avish grows deeper still, if 
in my hcait I envy, with murmuring thought, tlic blessed 
brides, on whose weddinir dawns the lausrhinir sun of 



F O II T F. n W A H I) . 55 

peace, thi'ii with a wish I cast away the ^^lory of tlicsc 
suirerin^ times. — Jt is hcst as it is. I am content, 

Annie. 1 wish [ could understand you, Helen. You 
say, " if lie iiad kept faith to you ;" — (tarried yon oil', you 
mean! Do you mean, sister IJcltii, that (jf your own 
will you would ever have jL,njne wilh him, with l^iVcrard 
Maitland, — that traitor? 

llcUm. Gone wilh him 7 Would I not? Would I 
not? Dear child, we talk of what, as yd, you know no- 
thing of. Gone with /wm? Soine thinjL,^s ar(! holy, An- 
nie, only until the holier come. 

Annie, {luokinp; toward the duo r.) Slay, slay. What 
is it, George? 

{George Grey comes in.) 

George. I was seeking our mother. What should it 
he, hut ill news? This tide is against us, and if it he 
not well-nigh full, wc may e'en fold (jin- arms for the rest. 
There, read that. {Throwi7ig her a Letter.) 

Every face you see looks as if a thunder-clond were 
passing it. I hciard on*; man say, just ncjw, as I came in 
that the war would he over in a fortnight's time. 
There'll he some hlood sijilt ere then, I reckon though. 

Helen. What paper is that that reddens her cheek so 
suddenly 1 

Annie. The McGregor's! — think of it, Helen, — gone 
over to the British side, and St. John of the Glens, and 
— who brought you this letter, George? 'Tis false! I 



.'iG T H E B R r D E P 

do not believe it, not a word of it. Why, here are twen- 
ty names, people that wc know, the most honorable, too, 
— forsaking us now, at such a crisis ! 

George. Self-defence, self defence, sister; their lands 
and their houses must be saved from devastation. What 
sort of barracks think you, would that fine country-scat of 
McGregor's make ? — and St. John's — he is a farmer you 
know, and his fields arc covered with beautiful grain, 
that a week will ripen, and so, he is for turning his sword 
into a sickle; — besides, there are worse tilings than pil- 
lage threatened here. Look, {unfolding a hand-bill.) 
Just at this time comes this villainous proclamation 
from Skeensborough, scattered about among our soldiers 
nobody knows how, half of them on the eve of desertion 
before, and the other half — what ails you, Helen? 

Helen. There he stands ! 

Annie. Is she crazed ? Why do you clasp your hands 
so wildly? for Heaven's sake, Helen! — her cheek is 
white as death. — Helen ! 

Helen. Is he gone, Annie? 

Annie. As I live, I do not know what you are talking 
of. Nay, look ; there is no one here, none that you 
need fear, most certainly. 

Helen. I saw him, his eye was on me ; there he 
stood, looking through that window, smiling and beckon- 
inff me. 



F O II r E D W A R D . 57 



G^eorg-e. Saw him ? Jf'/io, in Heaven's name? This 
is fancy-work. 

Helen. I saw him as I see you now. He stood on 
that roof —an Indian —I saw the crimson bars on his 
face, and the blanket, and the long wild hair on his 
shoulders ; and— and, I saw the gleaming knife in his 
girdle,— Oh God ! I did. 

George. Ay. ay, 'twas that scoundrel that dogged us 
in our way home, I'll lay my life it was. 

Helen. In our way home? An Indian, I said. 
George. Well, well, and I say an Indian, a rascal In- 
dian, was watching and following us all the way home 
just now. 

Helen. George ! 

George. Then you did not see him after all. In truth, 
I did not mean you should, for we could not have hurried 
more, but all the time we sat in that shanty, while it 
rained, about as far off as that chair from me, stood this 
same fellow among the bushes, watching us, or rather 
you. And you saw him here ? He might have crept 
along by that orchard wall. What are you laughing at, 
Annie?— I will go and see what sort of a guard we 
have. 

Annie. If you knew as much of Helen's Indians as I 
do, you would hardly be in such a hurry, George, I mean 
about this one that was here just now, for there are In- 
dians in yonder forest I suppose ; but since we were so 



5S 



T U E B H I 1) i: P 



high, I never walked in the woods with her once, but 
that we encountered one, or heard his steps among the 
bushes at least; and if it chanced to be as late as this, 
there w^ould be half a dozen of them way-laying us in 
the road, — but sometimes they turned out squirrels, 
and sometimes logs of wood, and sometimes mere air, 
air of about this color. We want a little light, that is all. 
There is no weapon like that for these fancy-people. I 
can slay a dozen of them with a candle's beams. 
{George goes out.) 
Helen. Do not laugh at mo to-night, Annie. 

Annie. But what should the Indians want of you, 
pry'thee ; tell me that, Helen? 

Helen. God knows. Wait till the sun sets to-morrow, 
and I will laugh Avith you if you arc merry then. 

Annie. Why to-morrow ? — because it is our last day 
herd Tuesday — Wednesday — yes; the next day we 
shall be on the road to Albany. [^E:rH. 

Helen. I am awake now. Watched me in the glen ? 
— followed me home ? Those woods are full of them. — 
But what has turned their wild eyes on me *? 

It is but one day longer ; — we have counted many, in 
peril and fear, and this., is the last ; — even now how soft- 
ly the fearful time wastes. One day ! — Oh God, thou 
only knowest what its shining walls encircle. {She leans 
on the wi?ulow, nmsing silcnihj.) Two years ago I 
stood here, and prayed to die. — On that same tree my 



r H T E D W A n D , 59 

eye rested then. With what visions of hope I played 
under it once, building bowers for fairies I verily thought 
would come, and dreaming, with yearning heart, of glo- 
rious and beautiful things this world luuk not. But 
that wretched day, through blinding tears, I savv the sun- 
light on its glossy leaves, and I said, 'let me see that 
light no more.' Surely the bitterness is deep when that 
which hath colored all our unfolded being, is a weariness. 
For what more hath life for me I thought, its lesson is 
learned and its power is spent,— it can please, and it can 
trouble me no more ; and why should I stay here in vain 
and wearily ? 

It was sad enough, indeed, to see the l.iughing spring 
returning again, when the everlasting winter had set in 
within, to link with each change of the varied year, 
sweet with a life's memories, such mournfulncss; lay- 
ing by, one by one, all hope's blessed spells, withered and 
broken forever,— -the moonlight, the songs of birds, the 
blossom showers of April, the green and gold of autumn's 
sunset,— it was sad, but it was not in vain.— Not in vain. 
Oh God, didst thou deny that weeping prayer. 

(.1 merry voice is heard without, and a child's face 
peeps through the window that overlooks the or- 
chard.) 

Child. Look! look! sister Helen! see what I have 
found on the roof of the piazza here,— all covered with 
wampum and scarlet, and here are feathers too— two 



00 



T U K II li I 1) i: O f 



A'nlhnsiu it, l>lii<' luid yellow- curie's fcatlins they arc, 

lb'lt'U.(^(ipproacl(in!':lh(' window.) I.cl iiir src, \\ illy. 
VVlmt, (litl you liiid il licir / 

Willi/. .III;. I iiiulcr llic window licrc h'rank and 1 
wric swii\,",in!^ oii (lie };alt' ; and - tlurc is sonu-Uiin^' 
liard ill II, llrli'M, iVcl. 

Helen. \«s, it is vt'iy curious; l)ut 

Willi/, 'riinr conies Notty willi lluM-andlc , now we 
oiiii sec lo iinlii' lliis liiiol. 

lit Int. Willy, tlfnr Willy, you niiisl j-ive il (o iiic, you 
must iiidcrd, and I will jiainl you a bird lo morrow. 

Willy. A jiliie l>ii<l, will you? A real one 7 

llt'h'U. Yi's, yes; - run tlowii iillle elimher ; see how 
ilarlt it ^rows, and b'rank Is waitins.^ see. 

Willi/. V\'ell. I'm mind you, il musl lie a Miie l»ird 
llien. A real Kn\\.\ Willi the reil on his hreast, and iill. 

I llrit. 

[She wtilli.'i (o the l(il>li\ iiiiliirJt itinr; (he invtlcjic.) 

Helen, What sent that ihrill of lorj^ottt'ii lil'e throuijh 
ine (Ih'U?— that wiltl, deli«'ious ihrilW This is slrauijc, 
intleed. A seah>d paetiuel within ! and here 

{She glances ut Hie .'inj)erseriiih\yn, iind the pae<iuet 
drops from her hand.) 



roiiT i:i)WAUi). CI 

No—nn. 1 havr nccii ili:ii Inind-wriling inmy drramH 
bclbrc, but it dissolved alwayfi. WInit's joy Ixillcr llniti 
grid* ir it pierce iIjus? Can never a one of all llie houI'b 
ti<M'|) rnelodi son lliis poor in Irunieni hr phiyrd out, then 
— lreniMin;( and jarrin;^ tiins, even at the hreath of itH 
most lovely passion. — And yet, il is Honie cruel thin;,', 1 
know. 

( 77te pacipul opened., disroverH lfelen\t miniature, a 

ftoolij a riii'';^ ami. other lokaUH.) 

Cruel indeed ! That l|iltl(! rose ! — lie uu^ht have Hpared 
mc this. A dull reader I were, in Irutli, if thia needed 
comrnenf, -but 1 knew il before, lie might have spar- 
ed n»e this. 

(She lean^t nvrr l/ifiTCCOvernd rdics with a hur»f. of 
jxiHfi innate, wecpiiii^.) 

Yet, who \mov/ H —( I. ijii 11.^^ her head wltk a mdden 
gmilc,) Bomc trace, sornr little .ml of Ins jxrieil I may 
find aioonf( these leaves yei, to tell riie, as of old, — 

(A letter il.r(>]>n from, the l)ook, she le.arH it ca/serhj 
open.) 

{Jteadinfr.) These cold word I inid<T>(and,l)Ut— //!/^'r/f .' 

lie; wrote nie none! Was rh'-re ever a word between 

U8, from the hour when he left me, his fancied hri<le, to 
thai last meeting;, when, at a word, and ere I knew what 
I had «aid, he turned on me that cold and carolcsf) eye, 
and left me, hau;^hiily and forever? And ii(m-'{icad- 
6 



62 7HEBR1DE0J' 

ing) — misapprehension, has it been! Is the sun on 
high again ? — in this black and starless night — the noon- 
day sun? He loves me still. — Oh ! this joy weighs like 
grief. 

Shall I see him again? Joy! joy! Beautiful sun- 
shine joy ! Who knows the souPs rich depths till joy 
hath lighted them ? — from the dim and sorrowful haunts 
of memory will he come again into the living present? 
Shall I see those eyes, looking on me ? Shall I hear my 
name in that lost music sound once more? — His? — Am 
I his again ? New mantled with that shining love, like 
some glorious and beautiful stranger I seem to myself, 
Helen — the bright and joy-wreathed thing his voice 
makes that name mean — My life will be all full of that 
blest music. I shall be Helen, evermore his — his. 

No, — it would make liars of old sages, — and all books 
would read wrong. A life of such wild blessedness ? It 
would be fearful like living in some magic land, where 
the honest laws of nature were not. A life ? — a moment 
were enough. Ages of common life would shine in if. 
(Reading again.) " Elliston's hut ?"— " If 1 choose that 
the return should be mutual, — and the memorials of a de- 
spised regard can at best be but an indifferent possession ; 
— a pacquet reinclosed directly in this same envelope, 
and left at the hut of the missionary, cannot fail to reach 
him safely." 

" Safely." — Might he not come there safely then ? 
And might I not go thither safely too, in to-morrow's 
light? 



FORTEDWARD. 63 

O God, let not Passion lead me now. The centre 
beaming truth, not passion's narrow ray, must light me 
here ! — But am I not his ? 

Once more, one horizon circles, for a day, our long- 
parted destinies ; another, and another wave of these 
wild times will drift them asunder again, forever; and 
I count myself his wife. His wife ?— nay, his bride, his 
two years' bride, to-night, his wife, to-morrow. He must 
meet me there, (writing) at noon, I will say.— I did not 
think that little hut of logs should have been my mar- 
riage-hall ;— he must meet me there, and to-morrow is 
ray bridal day 



PART THIRD, 



IPA^H- 



DIALOGUE I. 

Scene. The hill — Night — Larre fres burning — Sen- 
tinels dimly seen in the hack-ground. A yonn;/ Indian 
steals carefully from the thicket. He examines the 
ground and the newly-felled trees. 

Indian. One, two, three. And this is ringed. The 
dogs have spoiled ihe council-house. 

{Soldiers rush forward.) 

1st Sol. So, Mr. Red-skin ! would not you like a scalp 
or two now, to string on your leggings? Maybe we can 
help you to one or so. Hold fast. Take care of that 
arm, I know him of old. 



THE BRIDE OF FORT EDWARD. 65 

( IVie Indian, with a violent struggle, disengages him- 
self, and darts into the thicket.) 

No ? well, — dead or alive, we must have you on our side 
again. ( Firing.) 

2nd Sol. lie's fixed, Sir. 

Isl Sol. Hark. Hark, — off again ! Let me go. 
What do you hold me for, you scoundrel ? 

2nd Sol. Don't make a fool of yourself, Will Wilson. 
There will be a dozen of them yelling around you there. 
Besides, he is half way to the swamp by this. Look 
here ; what's this, in the grass here ? 

1st Sol. There was something in his hand, but he 
clenched it through it all, — this is a letter. Bring it to 
the fire. 

2d Sol. (reading.) " This by the Indian, as in case 
I am taken, he may reach the camp in safety. Not 
over three thousand men in all, I should think, — very 
little ammunition, soldiers mostly discouraged. — In 
Albany, they are tearing the lead off the windows of the 
houses, and taking the weights from the shops for ball. 
Talk of retreating on Thursday to the new encamp- 
ment, five miles below. More when I get to you.'' 

More ! Humph ! A pretty string of lies he has got 
here already. This must go to the General, Dick. 

\^Exeunt, 



6* 



66 T H D B U I D E O P 

DIALOGUE II. 

Scene. Chamber in the Parsonage. Moonlight. 
Annie sitting by the window, the door open into an 
adjoining room. 

Annie. (Calling.) Come, come, — why do you sit 
there scribbling so late, Helen? Come, and enjoy this 
beautiful night with me. Ay, what a world of invisible 
life amid the dew and darkness utters its glad voices; 
even the little insect we never saw by day, makes us feel 
for once the great brotherhood of being. This day week 
we shall be in Albany, — no more such scenes as this 
then. 

(Helen approaclics the window, and puts her arm gen- 
tly around her sister.) 

Helen. No more 1 — It was a sad word you were saying, 
Annie. 

Annie. IIow you startUnl me. Your hands are cold, 
— cold as icicles, and trembling too. What ails you, 
Helen? 

Helen. 'Tis nothing. — IIow often you and I have 
stood together thus, looking down on that old bridge. — 
Summer and winter. — Do you remember the cold snowy 
moonlights of old, when the sound of the distant bell 
had hope in it ? We shall stand together thus, no more. 

Annie. Do not speak so sadly, Helen. I cannot think 



P O 11 T E D W A R I) . 67 

they will destroy our home in mere wantonness. Was 
there not .some one eoraing up the path just now? 
Hark ! there is news with that tone. [Exit. 

Helen. A little more, an hour perchance, and he will 
read my letter. Why do I tremble thus ? Is it because 
I have done wrong, that these dark misgivings haunt 
me? No,— it is not remorse— 'tis very like — yet remorse 
it is not. Danger, there is none. I shall but walk to the 
woofl-sidc as to-day, that little path to the hut is quickly 
trod, and he will be waiting there. I shall be safe then, 
safe as I care to be. — Why do I stand hero reasoning 
thus ? Safe ? And if I were not, what is it to me now ? 
The dark plan is laid. The fearful acting now is all 
that's left for me. 

This must go to the lodge to-night, and ere my mother 
returns ; — to tell them now, would be to make my scheme 
impossible. 

{She begins, with a reluctant (dr. to fold the dressen, 
vJiirli are lying loo.s-e'y by her.) 

Oh God ! whence do these dark and horrible thoughts 
grow? — Nay, feeling not born of thought. That wed- 
ding robe looks like a shroud to me ! 1 cannot. Sha- 
dows from things unseen are uj)on me. The future is a 
night ol tempest, where I hear nothing but the breaking 
boughs, and the whirl and crash of the mourning blast. 
Oh God ! there is no refuge for the fearful, but in thee. — 
To thee — no. If t'lere is power in prayer of mine, hath 
it not already doomed that wicked cause, my fate is link- 



68 THEBRIDEOr 

ed with now. I cannot pray. — Can I not ? — How the 
])ure strength comes welling up from its infinite depths. 

Hear me — not with Hp service, I beseech thee now, 
but with the earnestness that stays the rushing heart's 
blood in its way. — Hear me. Let the high cause of 
right and freedom, whose sad banner, now, on yonder 
hill, floats in this summer airj whose music on this soft 
night-breeze is borne — let it prevail — though /, wiih all 
this sensitive, warm, shrinking life ; with all this new- 
found wealth of love and hope, lie on its iron way. 

I am safe now. — This life that I feel now, steel can- 
not reach. 

(Annie enters.) 

Annie. Dear Helen, dress yourself. It is all true ! 
We must go to-night, we must indeed. They are dis- 
mantling the fort now. — Come to the door, and you can 
hear them if you will ; and here is word from Henry, we 
must be ready before morning — the British are within 
sight. Do you hear me, Helen ? Do not stand looking 
at me in that strange way. 

Helen. To-night! 

Annie. I was frightened myself at first, sadly ; but 
there is no danger, not the least. We shall be in Albany 
to-morrow, Henry says. Come, Helen, there is no one 
to see to any thing but ourselves. They are running 
about like mad creatures there below, and the children 
arc crying, and such a lime you never saw. 



F R T E D W A R D . 69 

Helen. To-night! That those beautiful lips should 
speak it! Take it back. It cnnnot be. It must not be. 

Annie. Why do you look so reproachfully at me? 
Helen, you astonish and frighten me! 

Helen. Yes — yes — I sec it all. And why could I not 
have known this one iiour sooner? — Even now it may 
not be too late. Annie — 

Annie. Thank Heaven, — there is my mother's voice 
at last. 

Helen. Annie, stay. Do not mark what I have I 
said in the bewilderment of this sudden fear. Is George 
below? — Who brought this news? 

Annie. One of the men from the fort. — George has 
not been home since you sent him to EUiston's. She is 
calling me. Make haste and come down, Helen. 

[Exit. 

Helen. They will leave me alone. They will leave 
me here alone. And why could I not have known this 
one hour sooner? — I could have bid him come to-night — 
If the invisible powers are plotting against me, it is well. 
Could I have thought of this? — and yet, how like some- 
thing I had known before, it all comes upon me. — Can I 
stay here alone ? — Could I ? — No never, never ! He 
must come for me to-night. Perchance that pacquet 
still lies at yonder hut, and it is not yet too late to recal 
my letter; — if it is — if it is, I must find some other mes- 
senger. Thank God ! — there is one way. EUiston can 



70 



THE B RIDE O P 



send to that camp to-night. He can — even now, — He 
can — he will. — [Exit. 



DIALOGUE III. 

Scene. The porch. Helen waiting the return of her 
messenger from the hut. 

Helen. How quiet and soft it all lies in this solemn 
light. Is it illusion ?— can it be ? — that old, familiar look, 
that from these woods and hills, and from this moon-lit 
meadow, seems to smile on me now with such a holy 
promise of protection and love? — The merry trill in this 
apple-tree is the very sound that, waking from my infant 
sleep in the hush oi the summer midnight, of old lulled, 
nay, wakened my first inward thought. Oh that my heart's 
youngest religion could come again, the feeling with 
which a little child looks up to these mighty stars, as the 
spangles on his home-roof, while he stands smiling be- 
neath the awful shelter of the skies, as under a father's 
dome. But these years show us the evil that mocks that 
trust. 

'Tis he, — What a mere thread of time separates me 
from my fate, and yet the darkness of ages could not hide 
it more surely. Already he has reached the lane. Ano- 



FORT EDWARD. 71 

ther minute will show me all. Will the pacquet be in 
his hand, or will it not? I will be calm— it shall be like 
a picture to me. 

Ah ! there is an immeasurable power about us, a for- 
eign and strange thing, that answers net to the soul, that 
seems to know or to heed nothing of the living suffering, 
rejoicing being of the spirit. Why should I struggle 
with it any longer ? From my weeping childhood to this 
hour, it hath set its iron bars about tne ; no — softly yield- 
ing, hath it not sometimes, the long, undreamed-of vis- 
tas opened, bright as heaven, — and now, maybe—how 
slow he moves — even now perchance. — This is wrong. 
The Infinite is One. The Goodness Infinite, whose 
everlasting smile lighteth the inner soul, and the Power 
Infinite, whose alien touch without, in darkness comes, 
they are of One, and the good know it. 

The Messenger. ( Coming up the path.) 

Bless you, Miss ! The pacquet had been gone this 
hour ! 

Helen. Gone ! Well. — And EUiston — what said he ? 

Mess. I brought this note of yours back. Miss Helen. 
Father EUiston was gone. Here has been an Indian 
killed on Sandy Hill this evening, Alaska's own son as 
it turns out, and such a hubbub as they are making about 
it you never heard. I met a couple of squaws myself, 
yelling like mad creatures, and the woods are all alive 
with them. The priest has gone down to their village 



72 THEBRIDEOF 

to pacify them if it maybe, — so I brought the note back. 
Miss Helen, for there was no one there but a. little rascal 
of an Indian, and I would not trust the worth of afeather 
with one of them. Was I right ? 

Helen. Yes. Give it to me. How far is it to the Bri- 
tish camp ? 

Mess. Why, they are just above here at Brandon's 
Mills they say, that is, the main body. It can't be over 
three miles, or so. 

Helen. Three miles ! only three miles of this lovely 
moonlight road between us. — William McReady, go to 
that camp for me to-night. 

Mess. To the British camp ? 

Helen. Ay. 

Mess. To the British camp! Lord bless you, Miss. 
I should be shot — I should be shot as true as you are a 
living woman. I should be shot for a deserter, or, what's 
worse, I should be hanged for a spy. 

Helen. What shall I do ! 

Mess. And besides, there's Madame Grey will be 
wanting me by this time. See how the candles dance 
about the rooms there. 

Helen. Yes, you are right. We must go in and help 
them. Come, 

( They enter the house.) 



FORT EDWARD 



DIALOGUE IV. 



73 



Scene. The British canij). Moonlight. A lady in a 
rich travelling dress, standing in the door of a log- 
hut. 

Lady Ackland. {Talking to her maid within.) 
What is the matter, Margaret ? What do you go steal- 
ing about the walls so like a mad woman for, with that 
shoe in your hand ? 

Maid. ( Within.) There, Sir !— your song is done !— 
there's one less, I am certain of that. ( Coming to the 
door.) If ever I get home alive, my lady— Ha \— {strik- 
ing the door with her slipper.) If ever— you are there, 
are you? I believe I have broken my ear in two. The 
matter? Will your ladyship look here ? 

Lady A. Well. 

Maid, And if ever I get back to London, I'll say well 
loo. If ever I get back to London ahve, my lady,— I'll 
see 

Lady A. What will you see, Margaret? Nothing 
lovelier than this, I am sure. Are you not ashamed to 
stand muttering there? Come here, and look at this 
beautiful night. 

Maid. La, Lady Harriet ! 
7 



74 T n E B R I D E P 

Lachj A. Listen ! How still the camp is now! You 
can hoar the rush of those falls wc passed, distinctly. 
How pretty the tents look there, in that deep shade. 
These tuneful frogs and katy-dids must be our nightin- 
gales to-night. Indeed, as 1 stand now, 1 could almost 
fancy that tine wood there was my father's park; i ay,mc- 
thinks I see the top of the old gray turrets peeping out 
among the shadows there. Look, Margaret, do you seel 

Maid. La ! I can sec woods enough, my lady, if that 
is what you mean, — nothing else, and 1 have seen 
enough of them already to last me one life through. Yes, 
here's a pretty tear I have got amongst them! — Two 
guineas and a half it cost me in London, — 1 pray 1 may 
never set my eyes on a wood again. 

Lady A. This was some happy home once, I know. 
Sec that rose-bush, and this liitle bed of flowers. — Here 
was a pretty yard — there went the fence, — and there, 
where that waggon stands, by that broken pear-tree, 
swung the gale. And pleasant meetings there have 
been at this door, no doubt, and sorrowful partings too, 
—and hearts within have leaped at the sound of that 
gale, and merry tales have been told by that desolate 
hearth. In this little lonely unthought-of place, the mys- 
terious world of the human soul has unfolded, — the drama 
oflife been played, as grandly in the eyes of angels as 
in the proud halls where my life dawned. And there are 
hearts that cling to this desolate spot as mine does to 



P U T E D W A tt D . 75 

that far-ofT home. Wc have tlriven them away in sor- 
row and fear. This is war ! 

Maid. I wonder who is fiutini^ under that tree there, 
so late. They are serenading that Dutch woman, as 1 
live. 

Lady A. The Baroness, arc you talking of, Margaret ? 

Maid. A haroncss! Good sooth ! — she looks like it, 
in that yellow silk, and those odious beads, fussing about. 
If your ladyship will believe me, I saw her silting in 
her tent to night, ay, in the door, feeding that wretched 
child with her own hands. We can't be thankful 
enough they did not put her in here with us, I'll own. 

Lady A. Huih, hu^h, for shame! We might well 
have spared that empty room. Come, we'll go in — It's 
very late. Strange that Sir George should not be here 
ere this. 

Maid. Look, my lady ! Here's some one at the gate. 
{An officer enters the little court^ with a hasty step.) 

Officer. Good evening to your ladyship. — Is Captain 
Maitland here ? — Sir George told me that he left him 
here. 

Lady A. Ay, but he has been gone this hour. Stay, 
it is Andre's flute you hear below there, and some one 
has joined him just now — yes, it is he. 

OJf. Under that tree ; — thank you, my lady. 

Lady A. Stay, Colonel Hill, — I beg your pardon, but 



76 T n i: c R 1 1) E F 

you spoke so hastily.— This young Maitland is a friend 
of ourSj I trust there is nothing that concerns him pain- 
fully.— 

OJ)\ Oil nothing-, nothing, except that he is ordered 
oil to Fort Ann to-night. There are none of us that 
know these wild routes as well as he. \^Exit. 

Ijady A. Good Heavens! What noise is that ? 

Maid. Lord 'a mercy ! The battle is coming? 

Ladij A. Hush ! ( To a sentinel who goes ii'histling 
by.) Sirrah, what noise is that ? 

Sentinel. It's these Indians, my lady ; they have found 
the son of some chief of theirs nmrdered in these M'oods, 
and they are bringing hiui to the camp now. That's the 
mourning they make. 

Ijady A. The Lord jn'otect us ! 

( 7Viey enter the house.) 



DIALOGUE V. 

ScENK. The interior of a tent. Maithvid, in travel- 
ling equipme)its,]Hjei)ig the floor. 

Maitland. William! Ho there I 



V o u r K i> w A It D . 77 

Servant, {fjonkinc^ in.) Your honor? 

Malt,. Is not that horse ready yet? 

ScrH. Presontly, your honor. \_Exit, 

Mail. So lilt' I'c'llow lias been here, it seems, and re- 
turned again to b'orl Edward without seeing me. Of 
course, my hidy deigns no answer. — An answer ! Well, 
I thought I expected none. Ten minutes ago I should 
have sworn I expected iionc Why, by this time that 
hotter of mine has gone the rounds of the garrison, no 
doubt. William ! 

( VVir! .s'crvdiit niters.) 

Bring that horse round, you rascal. — must I be under 
your orders too, forsooth? 

SerU. Certainly, yourhoiv^r, — but if he could but just, 
— I am a going. Sir, — but if he could but just lake a 
mouthful or two more. There's never a baiting-place 
lill— 

Mail. Do you hoar? 

( The ScrvdJit retreats hastily.) 

Mail. The curse of having lived in these wilds cleaves 
to me in all things. Here are Andre and Mortimer, and 
a hundred more, and none but I for this midnight ser- 
vice. 

Ser'^t. {Re-enterin<j;.) The horse is waiting, Sir, — but 
here's two of these painted creturs hanging about the 
7* 



78 THEBRIDEOF 

door, waiting to see you. {Handing him a packet.) 
There's no use in swearing at them. Sir, they don't un- 
derstand it. 

Mait. {Brealiing the seals hastily, he discovers the 
miniature.) Back again ! Well, we'll try drowning 
next, — nay, this is as I sent it ! That rascal dvopped it 
in the woods perhaps ! Softly, — what have we here ? 
{He discovers, and reads the letter.) 

Who brought this? 

SerU. The Indian that was here yesterday. 

Mait. Alaska ! Here's blood on the envelope, on the 
letter too, and here — This packet has been soaked in 
blood. {Re-reading the letter.) 

" To-morrow " — " twelve o'clock " to-morrow— Look 
if the light be burnmg in the Lady Ackland's window, — 
she was up as I passed. " Twelve o'clock " — There are 
more horses on this route than these cunning settlers 
choose to reckon. Why, there are ten hours yet — 
I shall be back ere then. Helen — do I dream? — This is 
love ! — How I have wronged her. — This is love ! 

ScrH. {At the door.) The horse is waiting, Sir, — and 
this Indian here wont stir till he sees you. 

Mait. Alaska — I must think of it,— mA* ?— I would 
pledge my life on his truth. He has seen her too, — I re- 
member now, he saw her with me at the lake. Let him 
come in. — No, stop, I will speak with him as I go. 

\^Exeunt. 



TOUTED WARD. 79 



DIALOGUE VI. 



Scene. Lady AcklancVs door. 

Lady Ackland. Married! — His wife? — Well, I think 
I'll not try to sleep again. There goes Orion with 
his starry girdle. — Married — is he ? 

Maid. Was not that Captain Maitland that was talk- 
ing here just now, Lady Harriet ? 

Lady A. Go to bed, Margaret,— go to bed,— but look 
you though. To-morrow with the dawn that furnishing 
gear we left in the tent must be unpacked, and this 
empty room — whose wife, think you, is my guest to- 
morrow, Margaret ? 

Maid. Bless mc ! If I were to guess till daylight, my 
lady — 

Lady A. This young Maitland, you think so hand- 
some, Margaret — 

Maid. I?— la, it was not I, my lady, I am sure. 

Lady A, — He will bring us his wife home here to- 
morrow, a young and beautiful wife. 

Maid. Wife?— 

Lady A. Poor child,— we must give her a gentle wel- 
come. Do you remember those flowers we saw in the 
glen as we passed? — I will send for them in the' morn- 



80 THEBRIDEOF 

ing, and we will fill the vacant hearth with these blos- 
soming boughs. — 

Maid. But, here — in these woods, a wife !— where on 
earth will he bring her from, my lady ? 

Lady A. Ay, we shall see, to-morrow we shall see, 
— go dream the rest. 

[Exit the maid. 

Lady A. Who would have thought it ? — so cold and 
proud he seemed, so scornful of our sex. — And yet I 
knew something there lay beneath it all. — Even in that 
wild, gay mood, when the light of mirth filled and o'er- 
flowcd those splendid eyes, — deeper still, I saw always 
the calm sorrow-beam shining within. 

That picture he showed me — how pretty it was ! — 
The face haunts me with its look of beseeching loveli- 
ness. — Was there anything so sorrowful about it though? 
— Nay, the look was a smile, and yet a strange mourn- 
fulness clings to my thought of it now. Well, if the painter 
hath not dissembled in it — the painter ? — no. The 
spirit of those eyes was of no painter's making. From 
the Eidoa of the Heavenly Mind sprung that. 

I shall see her to-morrow. — Nay, I must meet her in 
the outskirts of the camp, — so went my promise, — if 
Maitland be not here ere then. \^Exit. 



FORT EDWARD. 81 

THOUGHTS. 

Scene. The Hill. The Student'' s Night-watch. 

How beautiful the night, through all these hours 

Of nothingness, with ceaseless music wakes 

Among the hills, trying the melodies 

Of myriad chords on the lone, darkened air. 

With lavish power, self-gladdened, caring nought 

That there is none to hear. How beautiful ! 

That men should live upon a world like this. 

Uncovered all, left open every night 

To the broad universe, with vision free 

To roam the long bright galleries of creation, 

Yet, to their strange destiny ne'er wake. 

Yon mighty hunter in his silver vest. 

That o'er those azure fields walks nightly now, 

In his bright girdle wears the self-same gems 

That on the watchers of old Babylon 

Shone once, and to the soldier on her walls 

Marked the swift hour, as they do now to me. 

Prose is the dream, and poetry the truth. 
That which we call reality, is but 
Reality's worn surface, that one thought 
Into the bright and boundless all might pierce. 
There's not a fragment of this weary real 
That hath not in its lines a story hid 
Stranger than aught wild chivalry could tell. 



aa THEBRIDEOF 

There's not a scene of this dim, daily life, 

But, in the splendor of one truthful thought 

As from creation's palette freshly wet. 

Might make young romance's loveliest picture dim, 

And e'en the wonder-land of ancient song, — 

Old Fable's fairest dream, a nursery rhyme. 

How calm the night moves on, and yet 

In the dark morrow, that behind those hills 

Lies sleeping now, who knows what waits ? — 'Tis well. 

He that made this life, I'll trust wiih another. 

To be, — there was the risk. We might have waked 

Amid a wrathful scene, but this, — with all 

Its lovely ordinances of calm days. 

The golden morns, the rosy evenings, 

Its sweet sabbath hours and holy homes, — 

If the same hidden hand from whence these sprung, 

That dark gate opens, what need we fear there? — 

Here's wrath, but none that hath not its sure pathway 

Upward leading, — there are tears, but 'tis 

A school-time weariness ; and many a breeze 

And lovely warble from our native hills, 

Through the dim casement comes, over the worn 

And tear-wet page, unto the listening ear 

Of our home sighing — to the listening ear. 

Ah, what know we of life? — of that strange life 

That this, in many a folded rudiment. 

With nature's low, unlying voice, doth point to. 

Is it not very like what the poor grub 

Knows of the butterfly's gay being ? — 



PORTEDWARD. 83 

With its colors strange, fragrance, and song, 
And robes of floating gold with gorgeous dyes. 
And loveliest motion o'er wide, blooming worlds. 
That dark dream had ne'er imaged I — 

Ay, sing on, 
Sing on, thou bright one, with the news of life, 
The everlasting, winging o'er our vale. 
Oh warble on, thy high, strange song. 
What say est thou?— aland o'er these dark cliffs. 
A land all glory, where the day ne'er setteth — 
Where bright creatures, mid the deathless shades. 
Go singing, shouting evermore ? And yet 
'Twere vain. That wild tale halh no meaning here, 
Thou warbler from afar. Like music 
Of a foreign tongue, on our dull sense. 
The rich thought wastes.— We have been nursed in tears, 
Thro' all we've known of life, we have known grief, 
And is there none in life's deep essence mixed ? 
Is sorrow but the young soul's garment then? — 
A baby mantle, doffed forever here, 
Within these lowly walls. 

And we were born 
Amid a glad creation ! — then why hear we ne'er 
The silver shout, filling the unmeasured heaven? — 
Why catch we e'er the rich plume's rustle soft. 
Or sweep of passing lyre I Our tearful home 
Hung 'mid a gay, rejoicing universe, 
And ne'er a glimpse adown its golden paths ? — 



34 T H E B n 1 D E O F 

Oh are ihcrc eyes, soft eyes upon us, 

In the dark and in the day, shining unseen, 

And everlasting smiles, brightening unfelt 

On all our tears : News sweet and strange ye bring. 

Hither we came from our Creator's hands, 

Bright earnest ones, looking for joy, and lo, 

A stranger met us at the gate of life, 

A stranger dark, and wrapped us in her robe. 

And bore us on through a dim vale. — Ah, not 

The world we looked for, — for an image in 

Our souls was born, of a high home, that yet 

We have not seen. And were our childhood's yearnings, 

Jts strange hopes, no dreams then,— dim revealings 

Of a land that yet wc travel to ? — 

But thou, oh foster-mother, mournful nurse, 

So long upon thy sable vest we're leaned. 

Thou art grown dear to us, and when at last 

At yonder blue and burning gate 

Thou yieldest up thy trust, and joy at last 

In her own wild embrace enfolds us once, e'en 

From the jewelled bosom of that dazzling one, 

From the young roses of that smiling face. 

Shall we not turn to thee, for one last glimpse 

Of that wan cheek, and solemn eye of love, 

And watch thy stately step, far down 

This dim world's fading paths ? Take us, kind sorrow ! 

We will lean our young head meekly on thee ; 

Grood and holy is thy ministry, 



FOUTEDWARD. 85 

Oh handmaid of the Halls thou ne'er mayst tread. 
And let the darkness gather round that world, 
Not for the vision of thy glittering walls 
We ask, nor glimpse of brilliant troops that roam 
Thine ancient streets, thou sunless city, — 
Wrap thy strange pavillions still in clouds. 
Let the shades slumber round thy many homes, 
By faith, and not by sight, through lowly paths 
Of goodness, sorrow-led, to thee we come. 



PART FOORTH. 



i?wiLi?nsiMiisg'^a 



DIALOGUE I. 

Scene. 77ie ground before the fort. Baggage wa- 
gons. Cannon dismounted. Confused sounds with- 
in. A soldier is seen leaning on his rife. 

{Another soldier enters.^ 

2nd Sol. It's morning! Look in the east there. What 
are we waiting for ? 

ist Sol. Eh! The devil knows best, I reckon, Sir. 

2nd Sol. Hillo, John! What's the matter there? 
Here's day-break upon us ! What are we wailing for ? 

(Another soldier enters.) 



THE BRIDE or FORT EDWARD. 87 

"Sd Sol. To build a bridge — that is all. 

2nd Sol. A bridge ? 

3d Sol. We shall be off by to-morrow night, no doubt of' 
it, — if we don't chance to get cooked and eaten before 
that time, — some little risk of that. 

2nd Sol. But what's the matter below there, I say ? 
The bridge ? what ails it 1 

3d Sol. Just as that last wagon was going over, down 
comes the bridge, Sirs, or a good piece of it at least. — 
What else could it do ? — timbers half sawn away I 

27id Sol. Some of that young jackanapc's work! Aid- 
de-camp ! I'd aid him. He must be ordering and fid- 
getting, and fuming. — Could not wait till wc were over. 

1*^ Sol. All of a piece, boys ! 

3d Sol. Humph. I wish it had been, — the bridge, I 
mean. 

Ist Sol. But, I say, don't you see how every thing, 
little and great, goes one way, and that, against us ? 
Chance has no currents like this ! It's a bad side that 
Providence frowns on. I think when Heaven deserts a 
cause, it's time for us poor mortals to begin to think about 
it. 

3d Sol. Now, if you are going to do so mean a thing 
a« that, don't talk about Heaven — prythee don't. 

[They pass on. 



88 THEBRIDEOP 

(Two 0th €1' soldiers enter.) 

ith Sol. (singing.) 

Yaiikee doodle is the tune 

Americans delight in, 
'Twill do touhistle. sing, or play. 
And just the thing for Jighting. 

Yankee doodle, hoijs. huzza 

(lireaking off' abruptly.) I do not like the looks of it. 
Will. 

5th Sol. Of what ? 

Ath Sol. Of the morning that begins to glimmer in the 
east there. 

5th Sol. No? Why, I was thinking just now I never 
saw a handsomer summer's dawning. That first faint 
light on the woods and meadows, there is nothing I like 
better. See. it has reached the river now. 

Ath Sol. But the mornings we saw two years ago 
looked on us with anotlier sort of eye than this, — it is not 
the glimmer of the long, pleasant harvest day that we see 
there. 

5th Sol. We have looked on mornings that promised 
better, Til own. I would rather be letting down the bars 
in llie old meadow just now, or hawing with my team 
down the brake ; witli the children by my side to pick 
the ripe blackberries for our morning meal, than standing 



F O R T E D W A U D . ^9 



here in these rags with a gun on my shoulder. Let 
well alone— Wc could not though. 

mSol. {ncmdinghimagla.^s.) See, they arc begin- 
ning to form again. It looks lor all the world like a fu- 
neral train. 

5th Sol. What was the Stamp Act to us, or all the 
acts beyond the sea that ever were acted, so long as 
they left us our golden fields, our Sabbath days, the quiet 
of the sumtner evening door, and the merry winter 
hearth. The Stamp Act ? It Avould have been cheap- 
er for us to have written our bills on gold-leaf, and for 
tea, to have drunk melted jewels, like the queen I read 
of once ; cheaper and belter, a thousand times, than the 
bloody cost wc are paying now. 

4:th Sol It was not the money. Will,— it was not the 
money, you know. The wrong it was. We could not 
be trampled on in that way,— it was not in us— we could 
not. 

5th Sol Ay, ay. A fine thing to get mad about was 
that when we sat in the door of a moonlight evening and 
the day's toils were done. It was easy talking then. 
TVampled on ! I will tell you when I was nearest being 
trampled on, Andros,- when I lay on the ground below 
there last winter,— on the frozen ground, with the blood 
running out of my side like a river, and a great high- 
heeled German walking over my shoulder as if I had 
been a hickory log. I can tell you. Sir, that other was a 
8* 



90 THEBRIDEOr 

moon-shiny sort of a trampling to that. I shall bear to be 
trampled on in figures the better for it, as long as I live. 
Between ourselves now 

4:th Sol. There's no one here. 

5th Sol. There are voices around that corner, though. 
Come this way. [ They pass on. 

(Another group of Soldiers.) 

1st Sol. Then if nothing else happens, we are off now. 
Hillo, Martin ! Here we go again — skulking away. 
Hey ? What do you say now ? Hey, M r.Martin, what 
do you say now? 

2nd Sol. (Advancing.) What I said before. 

1st Sol. But where is all this to end. Sir? Tell us 
that— tell us that. 

2d Sol. Yes, yes, — tell us that. If you don't see Bur- 
goyne safe in Albany by Friday night, never trust me. 
Sirs. 

1st Sol. A bad business we've made of it. 

Ath Sol. Suppose he gets to Albany ; — do you think 
that would finish the war ? 

3d Sol. Well, indeed, I thought that was settled on all 
hands. Sir. I believe the General himself makes no se- 
cret of that. 

Ath Sol. And what becomes of us all then ? We 



FORT KD WARD. 91 

shall go back to the old times again, I suppose; — weren't 
so very bad though, Sam, were they? 

1st Sol. We have seen worse, I'll own. 

3d Sol. And what becomes of our young nation here, 
with its congress and its army, and all these presidents, 
and gene als, and colonels, and aide-de-camps? — wont it 
look like a great baby-house when the hubbub is over, 
and the colonies settle quietly down again ? 

2nd Sol. Faith, you take it very coolly. Before that 
can happen, do you know what must happen to you? 

1st Sol. Nothing worse than this, I reckon. 

2nd Sol. {makes a gesture to denote hanging.) 

ith Sol. What would they hang us though ? Do you 
think they would really hang Us, John ? 

2nd Sol. Wait and see. 

1st Sol. Nonsense ! nonsense ! A few of the ring- 
leaders, Schuyler, and Hancock, and Washington, and a 
few such, they will hang of course, — but for the rest, — 
we shall have to take the oath anew, and swallow a few 
duties with our sugar and tea, and 

2nd Sol. You talk as if the matter were all settled 
already. 

1st Sol. There is no more doubt of it, than that you 
and I stand here this moment. Why, they are flocking 
to Skeensborough from all quarters now, and this poor 



92 T H E B H I D E P 

fragment,— this miserable skeleton of an army, which is 
the only earthly obstacle between Burgoyne and Albany, 
why, even this is crumbling to pieces as fast as one can 
reckon. Two hundred less than we were yesterday at 
this hour, and to-morrow — how many are off to-morrow? 
Ay, and what are we doing the while ? Bowing and 
retreating, cap in hand, from post to post, from Crown 
Point to Ticonderoga, from Ticonderoga to Fort Ed- 
ward, from Fort Edward onward ; just showing them 
down, as it were, into the heart of the land. Let them 
get to Albany— Ah, let them once get to Albany, they'll 
need no more of our help then, they HI take care of them- 
selves then and us too. 

2nd Sol. They'll never get to Albany, 

1st Sol. Hey ? 

2nd Sol. They'll never get to Albany. 

Ist Sol. What's to hinder them ? 

27id Sol. We, — yes we, — and such as we, craven- 
hearted as we are. They'll never get to Albany until we 
take them there captives. 

3d Sol. Then they'll wait till next week, I reckon. 

1st Sol. Ha ha ha ! Ha ha ha ! How many prison- 
ers shall we have a-piece, John ? How many regiments, 
I mean? They'll open the windows when we get there, 
won't they ? I hope the sun will shine that day. How 
grandly we shall march down the old hill there, with our 



P ilT E D W A R D . 03 

train behind us. I shall have to borrow a coat of ono of 
them though, they miglit be ashamed of their captor 
else. 

3^ Sol When is this great battU^ to be, John ? This 
don't look much like it. 

4th Sol. I think myself, if the General would only give 
us a chance to light 

2n(l Sol. A chance to throw your life away, — he will 
never give you. A chance to fight, you will have ere 
long, — doubt it not. Our General might clear his black- 
ened fame, by opposing this force to that, — this day he 
might ; — he will not do it. The time has not yet come. 
But he will spare no pains to strengthen the army, and 
prepare it for victory, and the glory he will leave to his 
rival. Recruits will be pouring in ere long. General 
Burgoyne's proclamation has weakened us,— General 
Schuyler will issue one himself to-day. 

1st Sol. Will he ? will he ? What will he proclaim ? 
— As to the recruits he gets, I'll eat them all, skin and 
bone. What will he proclaim ? You see what Bur- 
goync offers us. On the one hand, money and clothing, 
and protection for ourselves and our families ; and on the 
other, the cord, and the tomahawk, and the scalping- 
knife. Now, what will General Schuyler set down over 
against these two columns? — What will he offer us? — 
To lend us a gun, maybe, — leave to follow him from one 
post to another, barefooted and starving, and for our 



94 T H E B R I D E P 

pains to be cursed and reviled for cowards from one end 
of the land to the other. And what Avill he threaten? 
Ha, we were cowards indeed, if we feared what he could 
threaten. What thing in human nature will he speak 
to? — say. 

2nd Sol. I will tell you. To that spirit in human na- 
ture which resists the wrong, the fiendish wrong threat- 
ened there. Ay, in the basest nature that power sleeps, 
and out of the bosom of Omnipotence there is nothing 
stronger. It has wakened here once, and this war is its 
fruit. It slumbers now. Let Burgoyne look to it that 
he rouse it not himself for us. Let him look to it. For 
every outrage of those fiendish legions, thank God. — It 
lays a finger on the spring of our only strength. What 
will he offer us ? I will tell you.— A chance to live, or to 
die, — men, — ay, to leave a sample of manhood on the 
earth, that shall wring tears from the selfish of unborn 
ages, as they feel for once the depths of the slumbering 
and godlike nature within them. And Burgoyne, — oh ! 
a coat and a pair of shoes, he offers, and — how many 
pounds ?— Are you men ? 

Atli Sol. What do you say, Sam ? — Talks like a min- 
ister, don't he ? 

1st Sol. Come, come, — there's the drum, boys. You 
don't bamboozle me again ! I've heard all that before. 

3(/ >S'o/. Nor me. — I don't intend to have my wife and 



rORTEDWARD. 96 

children tomahawked,— don't think I can stand that, re- 
fugee or not. 

2nd Sol. Here they come. 

( Other Soldiers enter.) 

5ih Sol Airs ready, all's ready. 

6t7i Sol. {singing.) 

" Come blow the shrill bugle, the war dogs are howl- 
ing," [Exeunt. 



DIALOGUE IL 

Scene. Before the door of the Parsonage. Trunks, 
boxes, and various articles of furniture, scattered 
about the yard. Two men coming down the j^ath. 

(George Grey enters.) 

George. Those trunks in the forward team. Make 
haste. We've no time to lose. This box in the wa- 
gon where the children are. — Carefully — carefully, 
though. 

(A Soldier enters,) 



96 THEBRIDEOP 

Sol. Hurra, hurra, the house there ! Are you ready *? 
Ten minutes more. 

George. Get out. What do you stand yelling there 
for ? We know all about it. 

Sol. But your brother, the Captain, says, I must hurry 
you, or you'll be left behind. 

George. Tell my brother, the Captain, I'll see to that. 
We want no more hurrying. We have had enough of 
that already, and much good it has done us too. Stop, 
stop, — not that. We must leave those for the Indians to 
take their tea in. 

Workman. But the lady said 

George. Never mind the lady. Well, Annie, are you 
ready ? Don't stand there crying ; there's no use. We 
may come back here again yet, you know. Many a 
pleasant sunrise we may see from these windows yet. 
Heaven defend us, here is this aunt of ours. — What on 
earth are they bringing now ? 

{A Lady in the door with a couple of portraits, followed 
by others bringing baskets and boxes, etc.} 

Lady. That will do, set them down; now, the Colonel 
and his lady, on the back room wall, just over against 
the bcaufet. Stop a moment. I'll go with you myself. 

Betty, (/yi the door.) Lord 'a mercy ! Here it is 
broad day-light. What are we waiting for? I am all 
ready. Why don't we go? 



F R T E D \V A R D . 97 

George. I tell you, Aunt Raohacl, the thing is impossi- 
ble. This trumpery can't go, and there's the end of it. 
St. George and the Dragon— 

Miss Rachael. Never mind this young malapert — do 
as I bid you. 

Betty. Lord 'a mercy, we sliall all be murdered and 
scalped, every soul of us. Bless you— there it is in the 
garret novir!— just hold this umberell a minute, Mr. 
George, — think of those murderous Indians wearing my 
straw bonnet. Lord bless you ! What are you doing ? 
a heaving my umbcrel! over the ience, in that fashion ! 

George. These women will drive me mad I believe. 
Let that box alone, you rascal. Lay a finger on that 
trumpery there I say, and you'll find whose orders you 
are under; as for the Colonel and his lady, they'll get a 
little drink out of the first puddle we come to, I reckon. 

\^Goes out. 

Miss R. {Coming from, the house.) That will do. 
That is all, — in the green wagon, John 

SerH. But the children 

Miss R. Don't stand there, prating to me at a time 
like this. Make haste, make haste ! 

How perfectly calm I am ! I would never have be- 
lieved it; — just tie this string for me, child, my hands 
twitch so strangely,— they say the British are just down 
in the lane here, with five thousand Indians, Annie. 
9 



98 THEBRIDEOr 

Annie. It is no such thing, Aunt Rachael. The Bri- 
tish are quietly encamped on the other side of the river 5 
three miles off at least. 

Miss R. I thought as much. A pretty hour for us to 
be turned out of house and home to be sure. Not a wink 
have I slept this blessed night. Hark ! What o'clock 
is that ? George, George ! where is that boy ? Just run 
and tell your mother, Annie, just tell her, my dear, will 
you, that we shall all be murdered. Maybe she will make 
haste a little. Well, are they in ? 

SerH. The pictures ? They are in, — yes'm. But 
Miss Kitty's a crying, and says as how she won't go, 
and there's the other one too ; because. Ma'am, their toes — 
you see there's the trunk in front gives 'em a leetle slope 
inward, and then that chest under the seat — If you 
would just step down and see yourself. Ma'am. 

Miss R. I desire to be patient. [ They go out. 

{Annie sits on the bench of the little Porchj weeping. 
Mrs. Gray enters from within.') 

Annie. Shall I never walk down that shady path 
again? Shall I enter those dear rooms no more? 
There are voices there they cannot hear. From the life 
of buried years, ten thousand scenes, all vacancy toother 
eyes, enrich those Avails for us; the furniture that money 
cannot buy, that only the joy and grief of years can pur- 



FORT EDWARD, 



99 



chase. They will spoil our pleasant home, — will they 
not, mother? 

Mrs. G. Pleasant, ay, pleasant indeed, has it been to 
us. God's will be done. Do not weep, Annie. We 
have counted the cost ; — many a safe and happy home 
there will be in the days to come, whose light shall spring 
from this forgotten sorrow. God's will be done. 

Annie. Mother, they are all ready now ; is Helen in 
her room still ? 

Mrs. G. Go call her, Annie. Hours ago it was I sent 
her there. I thought she might get some little sleep ere 
the summons came. Call her, my child. How deadly 
pale she was! [Annie goes in. 



DIALOGUE III. 

Scene. A Chmiiber partly darkened^ the morning air 
steals faintly through the half -open shutters. Helen 
before the mirror gleaning upon the toilette^ her face 
buried in her hands, her long hair unbound^ and 
flowing on her shoulders. 

{Annie enters.) 

Annie. Helen ! Why, Helen, are you asleep there ? 
Come, we are going now. After keeping us on tiptoe 



100 THE BRIDE OF 

for hours, the summons has come at last. Indeed, there 
is hardly time for you to dress. Shall I help you? 

Helen. (Rising slowly.) God help me. Bid my 
mother come here, Annie. 

Annie. What ails you, Helen? — there is no time, — 
you do not understand me, — there is not one moment to 
be lost. Let me wind up this hair for you. 

Helen. Let go !— Oh God 

Annie. Helen Grey ! 

Helen. It was a dream, — it was but a foolish dream. 
It must not be thought of now, — it will never do. Bid 
my mother come here, I am ready now. 

Annie. Ready, Helen! — ready? — in that dressing- 
gown, and your hair — sec here, — are you ready, Helen? 

Helen. Yes, — bid her come. 

Annie. Heaven only knows what you mean with this 
wild talk of yours, but if you are not mad indeed, I intreat 
you, sister, waste no more of this precious time. 

Helen. No, no, — we must not indeed. It was Avrong, 
but I could not — go, — make haste, bid her come. 

Annie. She is crazed. certainly ! [(roes out. 

{Helen stands irith her arms folded, and her eye f.r- 

ed on the door.) 

{Mrs. Grey enters.) 



FORT EDWARD. 101 

Mrs. G. My child ! Helen, Helen ! Why do you 
stand there thus ? 

Helen. Mother 

Mrs. G. Nay, do not stay to speak. There — throw 
this mantle around you. Where is your hat ? — not here ! 
— Bridal gear ! 

( George enters.) 

George. On my word ! Well, well, stand there a 
little longer, to dress those pretty curls of yours, and 
— humph — there's a style in vogue in yonder camp 
for rebels just now; we'll all stand a chance to try, 
I think. 

Helen. George ! — George Grey ! — Be still, — be still. — 
We must not think of that. It was a dream. 

George. Is my sister mad ? 

Helen. Mother 

Mrs. G. Speak, my child. 

Helen. Mother — my blessed mother, — (aside.) 'Tis 
but a brief word, — it will be over soon. 

Mrs. G. Speak, Helen. 
Helen. I cannot go with you, mother. 
Mrs. G. Helen ? 
George. Not go with us ? 

Mrs. G. Helen, do you know what you are saying ? 
9* 



103 THE BRIDE OF 

George. You are in jest, Helen ; or else you are mad, 
—before another sunset the British army will be encamp- 
ing here. 

Helen. Hear mc, mother. A message from the Brit- 
ish camp came to me last night, — 

Mrs. G. The British camp ?— Ha !— ha ! Everard 
Maitland ! God forgive him. 

Helen. Do not speak thus. It was but a few cold 
and careless lines he sent me, — my purpose is my own. 

Mrs. G. And — what, and he does not know .'-—Helen 
Grey, this passes patience. 

Helen. He does. Here is the ansAvcr that has just 
now come ; for I have promised to meet him to-day at 
the hut of the missionary in yonder woods. — I can 
hardly spell these hasty words ; but this I know, he will 
surely come for me, — though he bids me wait until I 
hear his signal, — so I cannot go with you, mother. 

Mrs. G. Where will you go, Helen? 

Helen. Everard is in yonder camp ; — where should the 
wife's home be ? 

Mrs. G. The wife's ? 

Helen. These two years 1 have been his bride; — his 
wedded wife I shall be to-day. Yonder dawns my bridal 
day. 



FOHT KDWAHD, 103 



George. What dots slic say ? What docs Helen say 
I do not understand one word of it. 

Mrs. G. She says she will go to the British camp. 
Desertions thicken upon us. Hark '.—they arc calling 
us. 

George. To the British camp ? 

Mrs. G. Go down, George, go down. Your sister 
talks wildly and foolishly, what you should not have 
heard, what she will be sorry for anon ; go down, and 
tell them they must wait for us a little,— we will be there 
presently. 

George. Hark! {going to the c/oor.)— another mes- 
sage. Do you hear ?— Helen may be ready yet, if she 
will. 

Mrs. G. Blessed delay! Go down, George; say 
nothing of this. There is time yet. Tell them we will 
be there presently. 

( George goes out.) 

Mrs. G. Did you think T should leave you here to ac- 
complish this frantic -cheme?— Did you dream of it, and 
you call me mother ?— but what do you know of that 
name's meaning ? Do not turn away from me thus, my 
child ; do not stand with that fixed eye as though some 
phantom divinity were there. 1 shall not leave you here, 
Helen, never. 

Come, come ; sit down with me in this pleasant win- 



104 THE BRIDE OF 

dow, there is time yet, — let us look at this moonlight 
scheme of yours a Httle. Would you stay here in this 
deserted citadel, alone ? My child, our army are already 
on their march. In an hour more you would be the only 
living thing in all this solitude. Would you stay here 
alone, to meet your lover too? — Bethink yourself, Helen. 

Helen. This Canadian girl will stay with me, and 

Mrs. G. A girl ! — Helen, yesterday an army's 
strength, the armies of the nation, the love of mother, 
and brothers, and sisters, all seemed nothing for protec- 
tion to your timid and foreboding thought; and now, 
when the enemy are all around us, — do you talk of a 
single girl? Why, the spirit of some strange destiny is 
struggling with your nature, and speaks within you, but 
we will not yield to it. 

Helen. You have spoken truly, mother. There is one 
tie in these hearts of ours, whose strength makes destiny, 
and where that leads, there lie those iron ways that are 
of old from everlasting. This is Heaven's decree, not 
mine. 

Mrs. G. Do not charge the madness of this frantic 
scheme on Heaven, my child. 

Helen. Everard! — no, no. I cannot show to another 
the lightning flash, that with that name reveals my desti- 
ny,— yet the falling stone might as soon question of its 
way. Renounce him ? — you know not what you ask ! 



PORT EDWARD. 105 

all there is of life within me laughs at the wild impossi- 
bility. 

Mother, hear me. There is no danger in my staying 
here, — none real. The guard still keep their station on 
yonder hill, and the fort itself will not be wholly aban- 
doned to-day. Everard will come for me at noon. — It is 
impossible that the enemy should be here ere then; nay, 
the news of this unlooked-for movement will scarce have 
reached their camp. — Real danger there is none, and — 
Do not urge me. I know what you would say ; the bit- 
ter cost I have counted all, already, all — all. That Mait- 
land is in yonder camp, that — is it not a strange blessed- 
ness which can sweeten anguish such as this? — that he 
loves me still, that he will come here to-day to make me 
his forever, — this is all that I can say, my mother. 

Mrs. G. Will you go over to the British side, Helen ? 
Will you go over to the side of wrong and oppression ? 
Would you link yourself with our cruel and pursuing 
enemy? Oh no, no no, — that could net be — never, 
Amid the world of fearful thoughts that name brings, how 
could we place your image? Oh God, I did not count 
on this. I knew that this war was to bring us toil, and 
want, and fear, and haply bloody death; and I could have 
borne it unmurmuringly ; but — God forgive me, — that the 
child I nursed in these arms should forsake me, and join 
with our deadly foes against us — I did not count on 
this. 



106 THE BRIDE OF 

Helen. Yes — that's the look, — the very look — all night 
I saw it ; — it does not move me now, as it did then. It is 
shadows of these things that are so fearful, for with the real 
comes the unreckoned power of suffering. 

Mother, this dark coil hath Heaven wound, not we. 
The tie which makes his path the way of God to me, 
was linked ere this war was, — and war cannot undo it 
now. It is a bitter fate, I know,— a bitter and a fearful 
one. 

Mrs. G. Ay, ay, — thank God I You had forgotten, 
Helen, that in that army's pay, nay, all around us even now 
are hordes and legions. 

Helen. I know it, — I know it all. I do indeed. 

Mrs. G. Helen, will you place yourself defenceless 
amidst that savage race, whose very name from your 
childhood upwards, has filled you with such strange fear? 
Yesterday I chid you for those fancies, — I was wrong, — 
they were warnings, heaven-sent, to save you from this 
doom. What was that dream you talked of then ? 

Helen. Dreams are nothing. Will you unsay a life's 
lessons now when most I need them ? 

Mrs, G. Yesterday, all day, a shadow as of coming 
evil lay upon me, but now I remember the forgotten vi- 
sion whence it fell. Yesternight I had a dream, Helen, 
such as yours might be ; for in my broken and fevered 
slumbers, wherever I turned, cne vision awaited me. 
There was a savage arm, and over it fell a shower of 



FORT EDWARD. 107 

golden hair, and ever and anon, in the shadowy Ught of 
my dream, a knife glittered and waved before me. We 
were safe, but over one,— some young and innocent and 
tender one it was — there hung a hopeless and inexorable 
fate. Once methought it seemed the young English girl 
that was wedded here last winter, and once she turned 
her eye upon me— Ha !— I had forgotten that glance of 
agony— surely, Helen, it was yours. 

Mrs. G. Helen! my chM— (Aside.) There it is, 
that same curdling glance,— 'twas but a dream, Helen. 
Why do you stand there so white and motionless— why 
do you look on me with that fixed and darkening eye?— 
'twas but a dream ! 

Helen. And where were you ?— tell me truly. Was it 
not by a gurgling fountain among the pine trees there ? 
and was it not noon-day in your dream, a hot, bright, sul- 
try noon, and a few clouds swellmg in the western sky, 
and nothing but the trilling locusts astir ? 

Mrs. G. How wildly you talk ; how should I remem- 
ber any thing like this 1 

Helen. I will not yield to it; tempt me not. 'Tis folly 
all, I know it is. Danger there is none. Long ere yon- 
der hill is abandoned, Everard will be here ; and who 
knows that I am left here alone, and who would come 
here to seek me out but he ? Oh no, I cannot break 
this solemn faith for a dream. What would he give to 



IDS Tii K PHin F, or 

kiunv I hold my pnnnij^o and his love lighter tlu\n ii 
droam i 1 must .sV(/// here, mothor. 

Mrs. G, No, my cliiKl. Hoar luo. If this must be in- 
deed, if all my holy right in you is nothing, if you ^vill in- 
deed go over to our cruel enemy, and rejoice in our sor- 
rows and triumph in our in'onhrow — 

Hclrn. Hoar hor — 

^frit. (?, Be it so, Helon, — ho it so ; but for all that, do 
not stay here to-day. Boar but a little longer witli our 
wearisome tenderness, and wait for some safer chance 
of forsaking us. Come. 

JIclcu. If 1 oould— All, if I could 

-I/r.s'. (r. You can — you will. }\c\\\ lot n\o holji you. 
we shall ho ready yot. No ouo knows of this wild 
scheme but your brother and my self, no ono else shall 
ever know it. Couio. 

Ilrlcu. If 1 oould, Tis true, I did not know when I 
sent hiia this promise you would leave mo alone ere the 
liour should come. Perhaps — no, it would never do. 
When he comes and finds that, after all, I have deserted 
him, onoo with a word I angered him. and for years it 
was the last hetwoon us: — and what safer chance Avill 
there be in these fearful times of mooting him ? No. no. 
If wo do not moot now. wo are parhnl (or over; — if I do 
not keep my promise now, I shall see him no more. 



FORT Edward. 109 

Mrs. G. Sec him no more tluMi. What is he to us — 
this stranger, this hauglity, ;ill-re(iuiring one? Think of 
tlie bk^ssed days ere lie liad erossed our threshohl. You 
have counted all, Helen ? The anguish that will bring 
tears into your proud brother's eyes, your sister'rf com- 
fortless sorrow? — did you think of her lonely and sad- 
dened youth ? You counted the wild suflering of this 
bitter moment, — did you think of the weary years, the 
long sleepless nights of grief, the days of tears; did you 
count the anguish of a mother's brok(>n heart, Helen ? 
God only can count that. 

You did not — there come the blessed tears at last. 
Here's my own gentle daughter, once again. Come, 
Helen, see, they are waiting for us. There stands the 
old chaise under the locust tree. You and I will ride 
together. Come, 'tis but a few steps down that shady 
path, and we are safe — a few steps and quickly trod. 
Hark ! the respite is past even now. Do you stand 
there marble still? Helen, if you stay here, we shall 
see you no more. This lover of yours hates us all. He 
will take you to England when the war is over if you 
outlive its bloody hazards, and we are parted for ever. 
I shall see you no more, Helen, my child j my child, I shall 
sec you no more. (She sinks upon the chair, and 
weeps aloud.) 

Helen. Has it come to this ? Will you break my 
heart? If it were continents and oceans that you bade 
me cross, but those few steps — Ah, they would sever me 
10 



110 THE BRIDE OF 

from him for ever, and I cannot, I cannot, I cannot take 
them, — there is no motion so impossible. Yes, they are 
calling us. Do not stay. 

(Annie enters). 

Annie, Mother, will you tell me what this means ? 

Mrs. G. Yes, come in. We will waste no more time 
about it. She will stay here to meet her lover, she will 
forsake us for a traitor. We have nursed an enemy 
among us. The babe I cherished in this bosom, whose 
sleeping face I watched with a young mother's love, 
hath become my enemy. Oh my God — is it from thee ? 

Annie. Helen ! my sister ! Helen ! 

Mrs. G. Ay, look at her. Would you think that the 
spirit which heaves in that light frame, and glances in 
those soft eyes, held such cruel power? Yesterday I 
would have counted it a breath in the way of my lightest 
purpose, and now — come away, Annie — it is vain, you 
cannot move her. 

( George enters.) 

George. Mother, if Helen will not go now, we must 
leave her to her fate or share it with her. Every wagon 
is on the road but ours. A little more, and we shall be 
too late for the protection of the army. Shall I stay with 
herl 

Mrs. G. No, never. That were a sure and idle 
waste of life. Helen, perhaps, may be safe with them. 



FORT EDWARD. Ill 

Oh yes, the refugees are safe, else desertion would grow 
out of fashion soon. 

Armie. Refugees ! Refugee ! Helen ! 

Mrs. G. It sounds strange for one of us I know. You 
will grow used to it soon. Helen belongs to the British 
side, she will go over to them to-day, but she must go 
alone, for none of us would be safe in British hands, at 
least I trust so — this morning's experience might make 
me doubtful, but I trust we are all true here yet beside. 

Annie. Have I heard aright, Helen? — or is this all 
some fearful dream 1 You and I, who have lived to- 
gether all the years of our lives, to be parted this moment, 
and forever, — no, no ! 

(^ young American Officer enters hastily.) 

Capt. Grey. Softly, softly ! What is this ? Are you in 
this conspiracy to disgrace me, mother ? Oh, very well ; 
if you have all decided to stay here, I'll take my leave. 

Annie. Oh, Henry, stay. You can persuade her it may 
be. 

Capt. G. Persuade ! What's all this ! A goodly 
time for rhetoric forsooth ! Who's this that's risking all 
our lives, waiting to be persuaded now? 

Mrs. G. That Tory, Henry ! We should have thought 
of this. Ah, if we had gone yesterday, — that haughty 
Maitland, — she will stay here to meet him ! She will 
niarry him, my son. 



112 THE BRIDE OF 

Capt. G, Maitland !— and stay here ! 

Helen. Dear Henry, let us part in kindness. Do not 
look on me with that angry eye. It Mas I that played 
with you in the woods and meadows, it was I that 
roamed with you in those autumn twilights, — you loved 
me then, and we are parting for ever it may be. 

Capt. G. {To the children at the door.) Get you 
down, young ones, get you down. Pray, mother, lead 
the way, will you ? — break up this ring. Come, Helen, 
you and I will talk of this as we go on, only in passing 
give me leave to say, of all the mad pranks of your novel 
ladies, this caps the chief. You have outdone them, 
Helen ; I'll give you credit for it, you have outdone them 
all. 

Why you'll be chronicled, — there's nothing on record 
like it, that ever I heard of 5 I am well-read in romances 
too. We'll have a new love-ballad made and set to tune, 
under the head of "Love and Murder," it will come 
though, if you don't make haste a little. Come, come. 

Helen. Henry ! 

Capt. G. Are you in earnest, Helen? Did you sup- 
pose that we were mad enough to leave you here? 
You'll not go with us ? But you uill, by Heaven ! 

Helen. Henry ! Mother ! — Nay, Henry, this is vain. I 
shall stay here, I shall — I shall stay here, — so help ^le 
Heaven. 



FORT EDWARD. 113 

Capt. G. Helen Grey ! Is that young lioness there 
my sometime sister ? — my delicate sister? — with her foot 
planted like iron, and the strength of twenty men nerv- 
ing her arm? 

Helen. Let go. — I shall stay here. 

Capt. G. Well, have your way, young lady, have your 
way ; but — Mother, if you choose to leave that mad girl 
here, you can, — but as for this same Everard Maitland, 
look you, my lady, if I don't stab him to his heart's core, 
never trust me. 

{He goes out — Mrs. Grey follows him to the door.) 

Mrs. G. Stay, Henry, — stay. What shall we do ? 

Capt. G. Do ! — Indeed, a straight waistcoat is the 
only remedy I know of, Madam, for such freaks as these. 
If you say so, she shall go with us yet. 

Mrs. G. Hear me. This is no time for passion now 
Hear me, Henry. This Maitland, Tory as he is, is her be- 
trothed husband, and she has chosen her fate with him; 
we cannot keep her with us ; nay, with what we have 
now seen, it would be vain to think of it, to wish it even. 
She must go to him, — it but remains to see that she meets 
him safely. Noon is the hour appointed for his coming. 
Could we not stay till then ? 

Caipt. G. Impossible. Noon? — well. — Oh, if its all 
fixed upon ; — if you have settled it between yourselves 
that Helen is to abandon us and our protection, for 
10* 



114 J HE BRIDE OP 

Everard Maitland's and the British, the sooner done, the 
better. She's quite right, — she's like to find no safei 
chance for it than this. Noon, — there is a picket left on 
yonder hill till after that time, certainly, and a hundred 
men or so in the fort. I might give Van Vechten a hint 
of it — nay, I can return myself this afternoon, and if she 
is not gone then, I will take it upon me she is not left a 
second time. Of course Maitland would be likely to 
care for her safety. At aU events there's nothing else 
for us to dOj at least there's but one alternative, and 
that I have named to you. [^'*C7/ go out together. 

Helen. {She has stood silently watching them.) He 
has gone, without one parting look — he has gone ! So 
break the it yriad-tied loves, it hath taken a life to weave. 
This is a weary world. 

{She turns to her sister^ who leans weeping on the win- 
dow-seat.) 

Come, Annie, you and I will part in kindness, will we 
not ? No cruel words shall there be here. Pleasant hath 
your love been unto me, my precious sister. Farewell, 
Annie. 

Annie. Shall I never hear your voice again, that 
hath been the music of my whole hfe ? Is your face 
henceforth to be to me only a remembered thing? Helen, 
you must not stay here. The Indians, — it was no idle 
fear, the half of their bloody outrages you have not heard ; 
they will murder you, yes, you. The innocence and love- 



FORT EDWARD. 115 

liness that is holy to us, is nothing in their eyes, they 
would as soon sever that beautiful hair from your brow — 

/TeZew. Hush, hush. There is no danger, Annie. The 
dark things of destiny are God's ; the heart, the heart 
only, is ours. 

(Mrs. Grey re-enters.) 

Mrs. G. (to Annie.) Come, come, my child. This is 
foolish now. All is ready. Janette will stay with you, 
Helen. 

{Laughing voices are heard without, and the children's 
faces are seen peeping in the door.) 

Willy. Dear mother, are you not ready yet ? We have 
been in the wagon and out a hundred times. Oh, Helen, 
make haste. The sun is above the trees, and the grass 
on the roadside is all full of diamonds. The last sol- 
diers are winding down the hollow now. Is not Helen 
going, Mother ? 

Mrs. G. Your sister Helen is going from us'Jorever. 
Come in and kiss her once, and then make haste — you 
must not all be lost. 

( They enter.) 

Willy. Ah, why don't you go with us, sister? — Such 
a beautiful ride we shall have. You never heard such a 
bird-singing in all your life. 

Frank. We shall go by the Chesnut Hollow, George 



116 THEBRIDEOP 

says we shall. Smell of these roses, Helen, Must she 
stay here ? Hark, Willy, there's the drum. Good-bye. 
How sorry I am you will not go with us. 

Willy. So am I. What makes you stand so still and 
look at us so? Why don't you kiss me? Good-bye, Helen. 

Helen. {Embracing them silently.) 

Annie. Will you leave her here alone, mother? Will 
you? 

Mrs. G. No. There is a guard left on yonder hill, 
and the fort is not yet abandoned wholly. Besides, the 
army encamp at the creek, and Henry himself will 
return this afternoon. She will be gone ere then, 
though. 

Helen. Those merry steps and voices, those little, soft 
clinging hands and rosy lips, have vanished forever. For 
all my love I shall be to them but as the faint trace of 
some faded dream. This is a weary world. 

Come, George, farewell. How I have loved to look on 
that young brow. Be what my dreams have made you. 
Fare you well. 

George. Farewell, Helen. \He goes out hastily. 

Helen. Will he forget me ? 

Mrs. G. And farewell, Helen. Fare ye well. 

Helen. Will she leave me thus ? 



FORT EDWARD. 117 

Mrs. G. Do not go to the hut — do not leave this door 
until you are sure of the signal you spoke of, Helen. 

Helen. She will not look at me. — Mother ! 

Mrs. G. Farewell, Helen ; may the hour never come 
when you need the love you have cast from you now so 
freely. 

Helen. Will you leave me thus ? Is not our life toge- 
ther ending here ? In that great and solemn Hereafter 
our ways may meet again; but by the light of sun, or 
moon, or candle, or underneath these Heavens, no more. 
Oh! lovely, lovely have you been unto me, a spirit of 
holiness and beauty, building all my way. — Part we 
thus? 

Mrs. G. Farewell, Helen. 

Helen. Part we thus ? 

Mrs. G. Fare ye well, Helen Grey, my own sweet 
and precious child, my own lovely, lovely daughter, fare 
ye well, and the Lord be with you. The Lord keep you, 
for I can keep you now no more. The Lord watch over 
you, my helpless one, mine, mine, mine, all mine, though 
I leave you thus ; my world of untold wealth, unto ano- 
ther. Nay, do not sorrow, my blessed child, — you will 
be happy yet. Fear nothing, — if this must be, I say, fear 
nothing. You think that you are doing right in forsak- 
ing us thus ; — it may be that you are. If in the strength 
of a pure conscience you stay here to-day, — be not afraid* 



118 THE BRIDE OF 

When you lay here of old, a lisping babe, I told you of 
One whose love was better than a mother's. Now fare- 
well, and trust in Him. Farewell, mine eye shall see thee 
yet again. Farewell. 

Helen. No, no; leave me not. 

Mrs. G. Unclasp these hands, I cannot stay. 

Helen. Never — never. 

Mrs G. Untwine this wild embrace, or, even now, — 
even now 

Helen. Farewell, mother. Annie Grey, farewell. 

IThey go. 

Helen. This is a weary world. Take me home. To 
the land where there is no crying or bitterness, take me 
home. 

( The noise of retreating steps is heard, and the sound 
of the outer door closing heavily.) 

Helen. They are gone, — not to church, — not for the 
summer's ride. I shall see them no more. — In heaven 
it may be ; but by the twilight hearth, or merry table, at 
morn, or noon,or evening, in mirth or earthly tenderness, 
no more. 

Hark ! There it is ! — that voice, — I hear it now, I do. 
A dark eternity had rolled between us, and I hear it yet 
again. They are going now. Those rolling wheels, oh 
that that sound would last. There is no music half so 



FORT EDWARD. 119 

sweet. Fainter — fainter — it is gone — no—that was but 

the hollow. — Hark 

Now they are gone, indeed. So breaks the sense's last 
link between me and that world. 



PART FIFTH. 



5?WIEiIFmLiMIIBS3'^a 



DIALOGUE I. 

Scene. Tlie hill. A young Soldier enters. 

How gloriously, with what a lonely majesty themorn-^ 
ing wastes in that silent valley there ; with its moving 
shadows, and breeze and sunshine, and its thousand de- 
licious sounds mocking those desolate homes 

(He stops suddenly, and looks earnestly into the 
thicket.) 

This is strange, indeed. This feeling that I cannot 
analyze, still grows upon me. Presentiment 7 Some 
dark, swift-flying thought, leaves its trace, and the cause- 



PORT EDWARD. 121 

seeking mind, in the ranore of its own vision finding none. 



looks to the sliadowy future for it. [^He passes on. 

( Two Indian Chiefs, in their war-dress, emerge from 
the thicket, talking in suppressed tones.) 

1st Chief Hoogh ! Hoogh ! Alaska fights to revenge 
his son, — we spill our blood to revenge his son. and he 
thinks to win gifts besides. Hugh ! A brave chief he is ! 

2nd Chief Your talk is not good, Manida. They are 
our enemies, — we shall conquer them, we shall see their 
chestnut locks waving aloft, we shall dance and shout 
all night around them, and the eyes of the maidens shall 
meet ours in the merry ring, sparkling with joy, as we 
shout " Victory ! victory ! our enemies are slain, — our 
foot is on their necks, we have slain our enemies !" What 
more, Manida ? Is it not enough ? 

1st Chief. No. I went last night with Alaska to the 
camp above, to the tent of the young sachem of the lake, 
and he promised him presents, rich and many, for an er- 
rand that a boy might do. I asked Alaska to send me for 
him, and he would not. 

2nd Chief. The young white sachem was Alaska's 
friend, many moons ago, when Alaska was wounded and 
sick. — He must revenge young Siganaw, but he must 
keep his faith to his white friend, too. 

1st Chief Ah, but I know where the horse is hidden 
and the paper. When the tomahawks flash here, and 
11 



122 TBE BRIDE OF 

the war-cry is loudest, we will steal away. Come, and 5 
will share the prize with you. 

2nd Chief. No, I will tell my brother chief that Mani- 
da IS a treacherous friend. 

1st Chief. You cannot. It is too late. Hist! duick, 
lower — lower — [They crouch among the trees. 

{Another Soldier emerges Jrom the wood-path, sing- 
ing,) 
'' Then march to the roll oj the drum. 

It summons the brave to the plain. 
Where heroes contend for the home 
Which perchance they may ne^er see again.^* 

(Pausing abruptly.) Well, we are finely manned 
here! 

{1st Soldier re-enters.) 

2nd Sol. How many men do you think we have in all, 
upon this hill, Edward ? 

Isi Sol. Hist ! — more than you count on, perhaps. 

2nd Sol. Why ? What is the matter ? Why do you 
look among those bushes so earnestly ? 

1st Student. It is singular, indeed. I can hardly tell 
you what it is, but twice before in my round, precisely 
in this same spot, the same impression has flashed upon 
me, though the sense that gives it, if sense it is, will not 
bide an instant's questioning. There! Hist! Did 
nothing move there then % 



FORT EDWARD, 



123 



2nd Sol. I see nothing. This comes of star-gazing, 
when you should have slept. Though as to that, I have 
nothing to complain of, certainly. 1 had to thank your 
taste that way, last night, for an hour of the most deli- 
cious slumber. It was like that we used to snatch of 
old, between the first stroke of iliepiTyer-bell and its dy* 
ing peal. 

1st Sol. I am glad you could sleep. For myself, such 
a world of troubled thoughts haunted me, I found more 
repose in waking. 

2nd Sol. Then I wish you could have shared my 
dream with me, as indeed you seemed to, for you were 
with me through it all. A blessed dream it was, and 
yet — 

1st Sol. Well, let me share it with you now. 

2nd Sol I cannot tell you how it was, that in honor 
and good conscience we had effected it, but somehow, 
methought our part in this sickening warfare was ac- 
complished, and we were home again. Oh the joy of 
it! oh the joy of it! Even amid my dream, methought 
we questioned its reality, so unearthly in its perfectness, 
it seemed. We stood upon the college-green, and the 
sun was going down with a strange, darkling splendor ; 
and from afar, ever and anon came the thunder roll of 
battle; but we had nought to do with it; our part was 
done ; our time was out ; we were to fight no more. And 
f here we stood, watching the students' games; and there 



124 THE BRIDE OF 

too was poor //ai'e, merry and full of life as e'er he was, 
for never a thought of his cruel fate crossed my dream. 
Suddenly we saw two ladies, arm in arm, come swiftly 
down the shady street, most strangely beautiful and 
strangely clad; with long white robes, and garlands in 
their hair, and such a clear and silvery laugh, and somC' 
thing fearful in their loveliness withal ; and one of them, 
as she came smiling toward us — do you remember that 
bright, fair-haired girl we met in yonder lane one noon ? 
— Just such a smile as hers wore the lady in my dream. 
Then, into the old chapel we were crowding all; that 
long-deferred commencement liad come on at last; we 
stood upon a stage, and a strange light filled all the 
house, and suddenly the ceiling swelled unto the skiey 
dome, and nations filled the galleries ; and I woke, to find 
myself upon a soldier's couch, and the reveille beating. 

1st Sol. Well, if it cheered you, 'twas a good dream 
most certainly, though, yet — the dream-books might not 
tell you so. Will you take this glass a moment? 

2nd Sol What is it? 

1st Sol. That white house by the orchard, in the door 
— do you see nothing ? 

2nd Sol. Yes, a figure, certainly ; — yes, now it moves, 
I had thought those houses were deserted, — it is time 
they were I think, for all the protection we can give 
them. How long shall we maintain this post, think you, 
with such a handful ? 



FORT EDWARD. 125 

Isf Sol Till the preparations below are complete, I 
trust so at least, for we have watchers in these woods, no 
doubt, who would speedily report our absence. 

2nd Sol. Well, if we all see yonder sun go down, 'tis 
more than I count on. 

1st Sol. A chance if we do— a chance if we do. Will 
the hour come when this infant nation shall forget her 
bloody baptism? — the holy name of irulh and freedom, 
that with our hearts' blood we seal upon her in these days 
of fear? 

2nd Sol. Ay, that hour may come. 

1st Sol. Then, with tears, and blood if need be, shall 
she learn it anew ; and not in vain shall the bones of the 
martyrs moulder in her peopled vales. For human na- 
ture, in her loftiest mood, was this beautiful land of old 
built, and for ages hid. Here — her cradle-dreams be- 
hind her flung; here, on the height of ages past, 
her solemn eye down their long vistas turned, in a 
new and nobler life she shall arise here. Ah, who knows 
but that the book of History may show us at last on its 
lonj-marred page — Man himself, — no longer the partial 
and deformed developments of his nature, which each 
successive age hath left as if in mockery of its ideal, — 
but, man himself, the creature of thought, — the high,^alm, 
majestic being, that of old stood unshrinking beneath 
his Maker's gaze. Even, as firii he woke amid the gar- 
11* 



126 THE BRIDE OF 

dens of the East, in this far western clime at last he shall 
smile again, — a perfect thing. 

2nd Sol. In your earnestness, you do not mark these 
strange sounds, Edward. Listen. {He grasps his 
sword.) 

(A Soldier rushes down the path.) 

3d Sol. We are surrounded ! Fly. The Indians are 
upon us. Fly. [Rushes on. 

(Another Soldier bursts from the woods.) 

4th Sol. God ! They arc butchering them above there, 
do not stand here! [Rushes down the hill. 

2nd Sol. Resistance is vain. Hear those shrieks! 
There is death in them. Resistance is vain. 

1st Sol. Flight is vain. Look yonder ! Francis, — 
the dark hour hath come! 

2nd Sol. Is it so? Mother and sister I shall see no 
more. 

{A number of Indians, disfigured with paint and blood, 
and brandishing their knives, come rushing down 
the road, uttering short, fierce yells. Others from 
below, bringing back the fugitives.) 

Ist Sol. We shall die together. God of Truth and 
Freedom, unto thee our youthful spirits trust we. 

{The Indians surround them.. Fighting to the last^ 
they fall.) 



FORT EDWAItD 



DIALOGUE 11. 



1127 



Scene. The desertei house — the chamber — Helen by 
the lahle — her head binoed and motiurUess. She 
rises slowly from, her drooping posture. 

Helen. Il is my bridal day. T had forgotten that. 
{Looking from the wi7idow.) Is this real? Am I here 
alone? My mother gone? The army gone? brothers 
and sisters gone, and those woods full of armed Indians'? 
I am awake. This is not the light of dreams, — 'tis the 
sun that's shining there. Not ihc fresh and tender morn- 
ing sun, that looked in on that parting. Hours he has 
climbed since then, to turn those shadows thus,— hours that 
tome were nothing. — Alone? — deserted — defenceless? 
Of my own will too? There was a law in that will, 
though, was there not? {Turning suddenly from, the 
windaiD.) Shall I see him again? The living real of 
my thousand dreams, in the light of life, will he stand 
here to-day? — to-day? No, no. Is this swi't flow of 
being leading on to that ? Oh day of anguish, if in 
thine awful bosom, still, that dazzling instant sleeps, I 
can forgive the rest. 

{She stands by the toilette, and begins to gather once 
more the long hair from her shoulders. Suddenly 



128 THE BRIDE OP 

a low voice at the door breaks the stillness. The 
' Canadian servant looks in.) 

Jan. I ask your pardon — Shall I comein,Ma'amselle? 

Helen. Ay, ay, come in. How strangely any voice 
sounds amid this loneliness. I am glad you are here. 

Jan. {Entering.) Beautiful! Santa Maria I How 
beautiful! May I look at these things, Ma'amselle? 
{Stopping by the couch strewn with bridal gear.) Real 
Brussels ! And the plume in this bonnet, was there ever 
such a lovely droop ? 

Helen. Come, fasten this clasp for me, Netty. I thought 
to have had another bridesmaid once, but — that is past — 
Yes, I am a bride to-day, and I must not wait here una- 
dorned. {Aside.) He shall have no hint from me this 
day of " altered, fortunes.''^ As though these weary 
years had been but last night's dream, and my wedding- 
day had come as it was fixed, so will I meet him. — Yet 
I thought to have worn my shroud sooner than this 
robe. 

Jan. This silk would stand alone, Ma'amselle, — and 
what a lovely white it is ! Just such a bodice as this 
I saw my Lady Mary wear, two years ago this summer, 
in duebec ; only, this is a thought deeper. But, Santa 
Maria ! how it becomes a shape like yours ! 

Helen. What a world of buried feeling lives again as 



PORT EDWARD. 



129 



I feel the clasp of this robe once more ! Will he say 
these years have changed me 1 

Jan. (Aside.) I do not like that altered mien. How 
the beauty fl.ishes from her 7 h it silk and lace that can 
change one so ? Here are bracelets too, Ma'amsellc ; 
will you wear them ? 

Helen. Yes. Go, look from the window, Janette, 
down the lane to the woods. I am well-nigh ready now. 
He will come, — yes, he will come. 
(Janette retreats to the icindow—her eye still follow- 
ing the lady.) 
Jan. I have seen brides before, but never so gay a one 
as this. It is strange and fearful to see her stand here 
alone, in this lonesome house, all in glistening white, 
smiling, and the light flashing from her eyes thus. She 
looks too much like some radiant creature from another 
world, to be long for this. 

Helen. He will come, why should he not? Netty, fix 
your eye on that opening in the woods, and if you see 
but a shadow crossing it, tell me quickly. 

Jan. I can see nothing— nothing at all. Marie Sanctis- 
sima '.—how quiet it is ! The shadows are straight here 
now, Miss Helen. 

Helen. Noon— the very hour has come! Another 
minute it may be.— Noon, you said, Netty ? 

(Joining Janette at the window.) 



130 THEBRIDEOP 

Jan. Yes, quite — you can see ; and hark, there's the 
clock. Oh, isn't it lonesome though ? See how like the 
Sunday those houses look, with the doors all closed and 
the yards and gardens still as midnight. If we could but 
hear a human voice ! — whose, I would not care. 

Helen. How like any other noon-day it comes ! The 
faint breeze i)lays in those giaceful boughs as it did yes- 
terday ; that little, yellow butterfly glides on its noiseless 
way above the grass, as then it did ; — just so, the sha- 
dows sleep on the grassy road-side there ; — yes, Netty, 
yes, His very lonely. — Hear those merry birds ! 

Jan. But I would rather hear that signal, Miss Helen, 
a thousand times, than the best music that ever was 
played. 

Helen. I shall see him again. That wild hope is wild 
no longer. To doubt were wilder now. Ay, Fate must 
cross my way with a bold hand, to snatch that good from 
me now. And yet, — alas, in the shadowy future it lieth 
still, and a dark and treacherous realm is that ! The joys 
that blossom on its threshold are not ours — It may be, eveu 
now, d<u kn ss and silence everlasting lie between us. 

Jan, Hark— Hark ! 

Helen. What is it ? 

Jan. Hark ! — There ! — Do you hear nothing? 

Helen. Distant voices ? 

Jan. Yes — 



PORT EDWARD 



13t 



Helen. I do-^ 

Jan. Once before,— 'twas when I stood in the door be- 
low, I heard something like this ; but the breeze just then 
brought the sound of the fall nearer, and drowned it. 
There it is 1 — Nearer. The other window, Miss Helen. 

Helen. From that hill it comes, does it not ? 

Jan. Yes— yes, I should think it did. Oh yes. There 
is a guard left there— I had forgotten that. Mon Dieu ! 
How white your lips are I Are you afraid, Ma'amselle ? 

{Helen stands gazing silently from the window.) 

Jan. There is no danger. It must have been those 
soldiers that we heard,— or the cry of some wild animal 
roaming through yonder woods— it might have been,— 
how many strange sounds we hear from them. At ano- 
ther time we should never have thought of it. I think 
we should have heard that signal though, ere this,— I do, 
indeed. 

Helen. What is it to die? Nor wood nor meadow, nor 
winding stream, nor the blue sky,do they see ; nor the voice 
of bird or insect do they hear ; nor breeze, nor sunshine, 
nor fragrance visits them. Will there be nothing left that 
makes this being then 1 The high, Godlike purpose— 
the life whose breath it is,— can that die ?— the meek 
trust in Goodness Infinite, — can that perish? No. — This 
is that building of the soul which nothing can dissolve, 
that house eternal, that eternity's wide tempests cannot 
move. No — no — I a m not afraid. No — Netty, I am not 
afraid. 



132 THE BJlIDE OF 

Jan. Will you come here. Miss Helen'? 
Helen, Well. 

Jan. Look among those trees by the road-side— *those 
pine trees, on the side of the hill, where my finger 
points. — 

Helen. Well— what is it? 

Jan. Do you see — what a blinding sunshine this is — 
do you see something movins: there ? — ^^wait a moment — 
— they are hid among the trees now — you will see them 
again presently— There!— there they come, a troop of them, 
see. 

Helen. Yes — Indians — are they not? 

Jan. Ay— it must have been their yelling that 
we heard.— We need not be alarmed. — They are from 
the camp — they have come to that spring for water. The 
wonder is, your soldiers should have let them pass. — 
You will see them turning back directly now. 

Helen. {Turning from the window.) Shelter us — all 
power is thine. 

Jan. Holy Virgin ! — they are coming this way. Those 
creatures are coming down that hill, as I live. Yes, 
there they come. 

This strip of wood hides them now. What keeps 
them there so long? Ay, ay. — I see now — I am sorry I 
should have alarmed you so, Ma'amselle, for nothing too 



PORT EDWARD. 133 

—They have struck into those woods again, no doubt ; 
they are going back to their camp by the lower route. 

Helen. No. 

Jan. It must be so. There is no do ibt of it. Indeed, 
we might be sure they would never dare come here. — 
They cannot know yet that your army are s^one. Be- 
sides, we should have heard from them ere this. They 
could never have kept their horrid tongues to them- 
selves so long, I know, — Well, if it were to save me, I 
cannot screw myself into this shape any longer. (Rising 
from the window.) 

Helen. Listen. 

Jan. 'Tis nothing but the sound of the river. You 
can make nothing else of it, Ma'arnsel'e, — unless it is 
these locusts that you hear. I wish they would cease 
their everlasting din a moment. 

How that breeze has died away ! Every leaf is still 
now ! There's not a cloud or a speck in all the sky. 

Helen. Look in the west-— have you looked there? 

Jan. Yes, there are a few little clouds beginning to 
gather there indeed. We shall have a shower yet ere 
night. 

(The war-whoop is heard, loud and near.) 
Jan. Mon Dieu ! Here they are ! It is all over with 
us ! We shall be murdered ! 

(She clasps her hands, and shrieks wildly^ 
12 



134 THE BRIDE OP 

Helen. Hush ! hush ! Put down that window, andl 
come away. We must be calm now. 

Jan. It is all over with us, — what use is there ? Do 
you hear that trampling ?— in the street !— they are 
coming ! 

Helen. Janette — Hear me. Will you throw away 
your life and mine? For shame! Be calm. These 
Indians cannot know that we are here. They will see 
these houses all deserted. Why should they stop to 
search this 1 Hush ! hush ! they are passing now. 

Jan. They have stopped ! — the trampling has stop- 
ped ! — I hear the gate, — they have come into the yard. 

(il long wild yell is heard under the window. They 
standj looking silently at each other. Again it 
trembles through the room., louder than before.) 

Helen. I am sorry you stayed here with me. Perhaps 
—Hark! What was that? What was that? Was it 
not Maitland they said then? It was— it is — Don't 
grasp me so. 

Jan, Nay — what would you do? 

Helen. I must speak with them. Let go my arm! Do 
you not hear ? 'Tis Maitland they are talking of. How 
strangely that blessed name sounds in those tones! 

Jan. You must not — we have tempted Heaven al- 
ready — this is madness. 



FORT EDWARD. 135 

Helen. Let go, Janette. It is not you they seek. You 
can conceal yourself. You shall be safe. 

Jan. She is wild ! Nay, I was mad myself, or I should 
never have stayed here. It were better to have lived 
always with them, than to be murdered ihus. 

{Helen opens the winiow, and stands for a moment, 
looking silenthj down into the court. She turns 
away, shuddering.) 

Helen. Can I meet those eyes again? 

{Again the name of Maitland mingles with the wild 
and iinintelligihle sounds that rise from without.') 

Helen. Can I? (She turns to the window.) What 
can it mean ? His own beautiful steed ! How fiercely 
he prances beneath that unskilful rein. Where's your 
master, Selma, that he leaves me to be murdered here ? 
A letter ! He bids me unfasten the door, Janette. 

Jan. And will you ? 

Helen. They are treacherous I know. Thiswilldo. — 
{Taking a basket from the toilette.) Give me that cord. 
{She lets down the baskf'tjrom the window, and draws 
it up, loith a letter in it.) 

Helen. (Looking at the superscription.) 'Tis his! 
I thousjht so. Is it ink and paper that I want now? 
(Breaking it open.) Ah, there's no forgery in this. 'Tis 
his J 'tis his I 



136 THE BRIDE Of 

Jan. How can she stand to look at that little lock of 
hair now? — smiling as if she had found a hag of dia- 
monds. But there's bad news there. How the color 
fades out, and the light in her eye dies away. What can 
it be? 

Helen. {Throwing iJie letter down^ a7id walking the 
jioor hastily.) This is too much ! I cannot, I cannot, 
I cannot go with them ! How could he ask it of me ? 
This is cruel. 

He knew, perfectly well, how I have always feared 
them — I cannot go with them. 

{She takes vp the letter.) 

(Reading.) "Possible" — "If it were possible" — he 
does not read that word as I did when I kept this pro- 
mise — Possible? He does not know the meaning that 
love gives that word — " If I had known an hour sooner," 
— Ay, ay, an hour sooner I — " Trust me, dear Helen, 
they will not harm you." Trust me, trust me. Won't 
I? 

Jan. She is beckoning them, as I live ! 

Helen. Bring me that hat and mantle, Netty. I must 
go with these savages. 

Jan. Go with them ! 

Helen. There is no help for it. 

Jan. With these wihl creatures, — with these painted 



PORT EDWARD. 137 

devils ? — No — Like nothing human they look, I am 
sure. Ah see, see them in their feathers and blankets, 
and that long wild hair. See the knives and the toma- 
hawks in their girdles ! Holy Mary ! Here's one with- 
in the court! 

Helen. Yes, there he stands — there's life in it now. — 
There they stand — the chesnul boughs wave over them 
— this is the filling up of life. They are waiting for me. 
'Tis no dream. 

Jan. Dare you go with them ? They will murder 
you. 

Helen. If thpy were but human, I could move them — 
and yet it is the human in them that is so dreadful. To 
die were sad enough — to die by violence, by the power 
of the innocent elements, were dreadful, or to be torn of 
beasts; to meet the wild, fierce eye, with its fixed and 
deadly purpose, more dreadful ; but ah, to see the human 
soul, from the murderers eye glaring on you, to encoun- 
ter the human will, in its wickedness, amid that wild 
struggle— Oh God ! spare me. 

Jan. If you fear them so, surely you will not go with 
them. 

Helen. This letter says they are kind and innocent. 
One I should believe telh me there is no cause for fear. 
In his haste he could not find no other way to send for 



12* 



133 THE BRIDE OP 

me. — The army will be here soorij — I must go with 
them. 

Jan. But Captain Grey will come back here again 
this afternoon. Stay, — stay, and we will go with him. 

Helen. You can — yes, you will be safe. For myself, I 
will abide my choice. Surely I need not dread to go 
where my betrothed husband trusts me so fearlessly. I 
count my life worth little more than the price at which he 
values it. Clasp this mantle, Netty.— And is it thus I go 
forth from these blessed \a alls at last? — Through all those 
safe and quiet hoi::^; of peace and trust, did this dark end 
to them lie waiting here? — Are they calling me? 

Jan. Yes. 

Helen. Well, — I am ready. (Lingering' in the door.) I 
shall sit by that wir.dcw no more. Never again shall I 
turn those blinds to catch the breeze or the sunshine. 
Yes — (returning), let me look down on that orchard 
once again. Never more — never more. 

{She walks to the door, again panning 07i the thres- 
hold. 

Helen, (solemnly.) Oh God, here, from childhood to 
this hour, morning and evening I have called on thee — 
forget me not. Farewell, Netty, you will see my mother 
— you will see them all — that is past. — Tell her I had 
seen the Indians, and was not afraid. [ She goes out. 



FORT EDWARD. 139 

Jan. It won't take much to make an angel of her, 
there's that in it. 

{Looking cautiously through the shutters.) 

There she comes ! How every eye in that wild group 
flashes on her! And yet with what a calm and stately 
bearing she meets them. Holy Mary ! she suffers that 
savage creature to lift her to her horse, as though he 
were her brother, and the long knife by his side too, glanc- 
ing in the sunshine ! The horse, one would think, he 
knew the touch of that white hand on his neck. How 
gently he rears his beautiful head. There they go. 
Adieu ! Was there ever so sad a smile? 

Another glimpse I shall have of them yet beyond those 
trees. — Yes, there they go — there they go. I can see 
that lovely plume waving among the trees still. — Was 
there ever so wild a bridal train ? 



DIALOGUE III. 

Scene. British Camp. The interior of a Tent richly 
furnished. An Officer seated at a table covered 
with papers and maps. A Servant in waiting. 

The Officer. (Sipping his wine^ an I carefully exa- 
mining a plan of the adjacent counirjj.) About here, 



140 THE BRIDE OP 

we must be — let me see. — I heard the drum from their 
fort this morning, distinctly. Turn that curtain ; we 
might get a faint breeze there now. 

SerH. But the sun will be coming that side, Sir. It's 
past two o'clock. 

Off. Past two — a good position — very. Well, well, 
— we'll take our breakfast in Albany on Friday morning, 
and if our soldiers fast a day or two ere then, why 
they'll relish it the better; — once in the rich country be- 
yond — Ay, it will take more troops than this General will 
have at his bidding by that time, to drain the Hudson's 
borders for us. 

(.4 Servant enters with a note.) 

Off. {Reading.) " The Barones.s ReideseVs compli- 
ments — do her the honor — Voisin has succeeded.'''' — 
Ay, ay, — Voisin has succeeded, — I'll warrant that. That 
caterer of hers mu^t be m league with the powers of 
the air, I am certain. General Burgoyne will be but too 
happy, my Lady — {writing the annioer.) 

[ The Servant goes out. 

Off. Past two ! The cannon should be in sight ere 
this. This to Sir George Ackland. 

lE.vit the Attendant. 

Off. Tuesday — Wednesday. — If the batleaux should 
get here to-morrow. One hundred teams 

{Another Officer enters the tent.) 



FORT EDWARD. 141 

1st Off. How goes it abroad, Colonel St. Leger? 

2nd Off. Indeed, Sir, the camp is as quiet as midnight. 
It's a breathless heat. But there are a few dark heads 
swelling in the west. We may have a shower yet ere 
night. 

Bur. Good news that. But here is better, {giving 
the other an open letter.) 

St. Leger. Ay, ay, that reads well, Sir. 

Bur. And here is another as good. Yes Sir, yes Sir,— 
they are flocking in from all quarters— the insurgents are 
laying down their arms by hundreds. It must be a 
miserable fragment that Schuyler has with him by this. 

St. L. General Burgoyne, is not it a singular circum- 
stance, that the enemy should allow us to take possession 
of a point like that without opposition, — so trifling a 
detachment, too? Why, that hill commands the fort, — 
certainly it does. 

Bur. Well— well. They are pretty much reduced, 
I fancy, Sir. We shall hardly hear much more from 
them. Let me see,— this is the hill. 

St. L. A pity we could not provoke them into an 
engagement, though ! They depend so entirely upon 
the popular feeling for supplies and troops, and the whole 
machinery of their warfare, that it is rather hazard- 
ous reckoning upon them, after all. If we could draw 



142 THE BRIDE OF 

them into an engagement noio, the result would be cer- 
tain. 

Bur. Yes, yes ; we must contrive to do that ere 
long. Rather troublesome travelling companions they 
make, that's certain. Like those insects that swarm 
about us here, — no great honor in fighting them, but a 
good deal of discomfort in letting them alone. We must 
sweep them out of our way, I think, or at all events give 
them a brush, that will quiet them a little. 

St. L. Or they might prove, after all, like the gad- 
fly in the fable. I do not think this outbreak will be 
any disadvantage in the end, General. 

Biir. Not a whit — not a whit — they have needed this. 
!t will do them good. Sir. 

St. L. The fact is, these colonies were founded in 
the spirit of insubordination, and all the circumstances 
of their position have hitherto tended to develope only 
these disorganizing elements. 

Bur. It will do them good, Sir. Depend upon it, 
they'll remember this lesson. Pretty well sickened of 
war are they all. They'll count the cost ere they try it 
again. 

St. L. We can hardly expect the news from General 
Reidesel before sunset, I suppose. 

Bur. If my messenger returns by to-morrow's sunrise, 
it is better fortune than I look for. 



PORT EDWARD. 143 

( Col. St. Leger goes out.) 
{Bur gay ne resumes his plan.) 
A SerH. (At the door.) Capt. Maiiland, Sir. 
Bur. Capt. Maitland ! 
Ser^t. From Fort Ann, Sir. 

{Maitland enters.) 

Bur. Captain Maitland! Good heavens, I thought 
you were at Skeensborough by this, — what has happened? 
or am I to congratulate myself that the necessity of your 
embassy is obviated. You met them, perhaps?— 

Maitland. There's but little cause of congratulation, 
Sir. as these dispatches will prove to you. I returned 
only because my embassy was accomplished. 

Bur. Do you mean to say, Captain Maitland, that you 
have seen the waters of Lake Champlain, since you left 
here this morning ? 

Matt. I do, Sir. 

Bur. On my word, these roads must have improved 
since we travelled them some two days agone. I am 
sorry for your horses. Sir. You saw General Reidesel? 

Mail. I left him only at nine o'clock this morning. 

{Burgoyne examines the dispatches.) 
Bur. " Twelve oxen to one balteaux !" — "and but fifty 



144 



THE BRIDE OF 



teams !" This news was scarcely worth so much hastCj 
I think, — but fifty teams? — Captain Mailland, had those 
draught horses from Canada not arrived yet? 

Mait. They were just landing this morning as I left, 
but only one-fourth of the number contracted for. 

Bur. Humph ! I would like to know what lime, at 

this rate sit down. Captain Maitland, sit down — we 

are like to spend the summer here, for aught I see, 
after all. (A long pans e^ in which Burgoyne resumes 
his reading ) 

Mait. General Burgoyne, I am entrusted with a mes- 
sage from General Reidsel to the Baroness. If this is 
all- 

Bur. What were you saying? — The Baroness — ay, 
ay — that's all well enough, — but Captain Maitland is 
aware, no doubt, there are more important subjects on 
the tapis just now than a lady's behests. 

Mait. Sir? 

Bur. {Pushing the papers impatiently from hint.) 
This will never do. St. George ! We'll give these 
rebels other work ere many days, than driving away cattle 
and breaking down bridges for our convenience. Mean- 
while we must open some new source of supplies, or 
we may starve to death among these hills yet. Captain 
Maitland, 1 have a proposal to make to you. You are 
impatient, Sir. 



FORT EDWARD. 145 

Mait. General Burgoyne ! • 

Bur. Nay, nay, — there's no haste about it. It weie 
cruel to detain you now, after the toil of this wild jour- 
ney. You'll find your quarters chunked, Captain Mait- 
land. We sent a small detachment across the river just 
now. Some of our copper-colored allies had got into a 
fray with the enemy there. 

Mait. Ha! {returning.) 

Bur. Nothing of consequence, as it turns out. We 
hoped it would have ended in something. A few of the 
enemy, who were stationed as a guard on a hill not far 
from Fort Edward, were surprised by a party of Indians, 
and killed, to a man, I believe. Afterwards, the victors 
got into a deadly fray among themselves as usual. A 
quarrel between a couple of these chiefs, at some famous 
watering place of theirs, and in the midst of it, a party 
from the fort drove them from the ground ; — this i* 
Alaska's own story at least. 

Mail. Alaska's! 

Bur. Alaska ? — Alaska ? — yes, I think it was, — one of 
these new allies we have picked up here. 

Mait. {In a whisper.) Good God ! 

Bur. By the time our detachment arrived there, how- 
ever, the ground was cleared, and they took quiet pos- 
session. Are you ill. Captain Maitland ? 
13 



146 THE BRIDE OF 

Mail. A little, — it is nothing. I am to cross the 
river. 

Btcr. Yes. You will take these papers -to Captain 
Andre. You have over-fatigued yourself. You should 
have taken more lime for this wild journey. 

(Maitland goes out.) 

Bur. I do not like the idea of division, but it cannot be 
helped now. This gallant young soldier were a fitting 
leader for such an enterprize. 



DIALOGUE IV. 

Scene, The ground before Maitland^ s Tent. 
{Maitland and the Indian Chief, Manida^ enter.) 

Malt. This is well. {He writes on a slip of paper j 
and gives it to the Indian.) Take that, they will give 
you the reward you ask for it. Let me see your face no 
more, that is all. 

Manida. Ha, Monsieur? 

Mail. Let me see your face no more, I say. Do you 
understand me ? 

Manida. {Smiling.) Oui. 



FORT EDWARD. 147 

{Maitland turns from him. The Indian goes off in 
the oppo'iite direction. He stops amoment, and steals 
a look at Maitland, — throws his head back with a 
long silent laugh, and then goes on toward the 
woods.) 

Mail. (Musing.) I like this. This is womanly ! 
Nay, perhaps there is no caprice about it. I may have 
misinterpreted that letter in my haste last night. Very 
likely. Well,— better this, than that Helen Grey should 
come to evil through fault of mine, — better this, than the 
anguish of the horrible misgivings that haunted me amid 
my journey. 

And so pass these faery visions ! Nay, not thus. It 
will take longer than this to unlink this one day's hope 
from its thousand fastnesses. I thought, ere this, to have 
met the spirit of those beaming eyes, to have taken to my 
heart for ever this soft, pure being of another life. 
And yet, even as I rode through those lonely hills this 
morning, with every picture my hope painted, there came 
a strange misgiving; — like some scene of laughing noon- 
day loveliness, darkening in the shadow of a summer's 
cloud. 

Strange that Alaska should abandon my trust! I can- 
not understand it. Why, I should never have trusted 
her with this rascal Indian. There was something in 
his eye, hateful beyond all thought, — and once or twice 
I caught a strange expression in it, like malignant tri- 
umph it seemed. It may be — no, he must have seen 



148 THE B R 1 1> B OF FORT EDWARD. 

lier — that glove he showed me was hers, I know. Good 

God ! — what if 1 think my old experience should 

have taught me there was Utile danger of her risking 
much in my behalf. Well — even this is better, than that 
Helen Grey should have come to evil through fault of 
mine. 



PART SIXTH. 



a2E(gvQ)33'®3ILlIv^S3(fi)SS'- 



DIALOGUE I. 

Scene. The slope of the Hill near Fort Edward. 
The road-side, shaded wilh slate! ij pines and hem- 
locks. 

( Two Brifish Oncers, coming slowly down the road.) 

\st Off. Yes, here has been wild work upon this hill 
to-day. They were slaughtered to a man. 

2nd Off. I saw a sight above there, just now, that 
sickened nie of warfare. 

1st Off. And what was that, pry'thee ? 

2nd Off. Oh nothing, — 'twas nothing but a dead sol- 



150 THEBRIDEOP 

dier ; a common sight enough, indeed ; but this was a 
mere youth; — he was lying in a little hollow on the road- 
side, and as I crossed in haste, I had well-nigh set my 
foot on his brow. Such a brow it was, so young, so no- 
ble, and the dark chesnul curls clustering about it. I think 
I never saw a more classic set of features, or a look of 
loftier courage than that which death seemed to have 
found and marbled in them. Hark — that's a water- fall 
we hear. 

ist Off. I saw him, there was another though, lying 
not far thence, the sight of whom moved me more. He 
was younger yet, or seemed so, and of a softer mould; 
and, torn and bloody as they were, I fancied I could see 
in his garb and appointments, and in every line of his 
features, the traces of some mother's tenderness. 

2nd O^. Listen, Andre! This is beautiful ! There's 
some cascade not far hence, worth searching for. 

Andre. Yes, just in among those trees you'll find a 
perfect drawing-room, carpeted, canopied, and dark as 
twilight ; its verdant seats broidered with violets and 
forget-me-nots; and all untenanted it seems, nay, desert- 
ed rather, for the music Avastes on the lonely air, as if the 
fairy that kept state there, in gossip mood had stolen 
down some neighboring aisle, and v/ould be home anon. 
I would have bartered all the glory of this campaign for 
leave to stretch myself on its mossy bank, for a soft hour 



FORT EDWARD. 151 

Mor. Ay, with Chaucer o: ihe " Faery dueen." If 
one could people these lovely shades with the fresh crea- 
tions of the olden time, knight and lady, and dark en- 
chantress and Paynim fierce, instead of Yankee rebels — 

Andre. 'Twere well your faery-work were of no last- 
ing mould, or these same Yankee rebels would scarce 
thank you for your pains,— they hold that race in little 
reverence. Alas, — 

No grot divine, or wood-nymph haunted glen, 

Or stream, or fount, shall these young shades e'er know,. 

No beautiful divinity, stealing afar 

Through darkling nooks, to poet's eye thence gleam; 

With mocking mystery the dim ways wind, 

They reach not to the blessed fairy-land 

That once all lovely in heaven's stolen light, 

To yearning thoughts, in the deep green-wood grew. 

Ah ! had they co ne to light when nature 

Was a wonder-loving, story-telling child ! — 

The misty morn of ages had gone by, 

The dreamy childhood of the race was past, 

And in its tame and reasoning manhood, 

In the daylight broad, and noon-day of all time, 

This world hath sprung. The poetry ol truth, 

None other, shall her shining lakes, and woods, 

And ocean-streams, and hoary mountains weafo 

Perchance that other day of poesy, 

Unsung of prophets, that upon the lands 



152 THE BRIDE OF 

Shall dawn yet, thence shall spring. The self-same 

mind 
That on the night of ages once/for us 
Those deathless clusters flung, the self-same mind, 
With all its ancient elements of might, 
Among us now its ancient glory hides ; 
But, from its smothered power, and buried wealth, 
A golden future sparkles, decked from deeper founts, 
A new and lovelier firmament, 
A thousand realms of song undreamed of now, 
That shall make Romance a forgotten world. 
And the young heaven of Antiquity, 
With all its starry groups, a gathered scroll. 

Mor. Ay, Andre, you were born a poet, and have mis- 
taken your art. Prythee excuse me, who am but a poor 
soldier, for marring so fine a rhapsody wilh any thing so 
sublunary ; but, methinks, for an enemy's quarters, yon- 
der fort shows as peaceable a fio t of stone and mortar 
as one could ask for. What can it mean that they are 
so quiet there? 

Andre. That spy did not return a second time. 

Mor. The rogues have made sure of him ere this, 1 
fancy. They may have given us the slip, — who knows? 

Andre. I would like to venture a stroll through that 
shady street if I thought so, A dim impression that I 
have somewhere seen this view before, haunts me un- 
accountably. 



P R T E D W A R D . 153 

Mor. How I hate that sober, afternoon air, that hangs 
like an invisible presence over it all. You can see it in 
the sunshine on those white walls, you can hear it in the 
hum of the bee from the bending thistle here. 

Andre. Of the mind it is. This were lovely as the 
morning li^ht, but for the shade it gathers thence, from 
the thought of decline and the vanishing day. 'Tis a 
pretty spot. 

Mor. Yes, but the quiet goings-on of life are all hush- 
ed there now. 

Andre. Ay, this is the hour, when the home-bound 
children swing the gate with a merry spring, and the 
mother sits at her workby the open window, with her quiet 
eye, and the daughter, with the beauty of an untamed soul 
in her's, looks forth ou the woods and meadows, and 
thinks of her walk at even-tide. I thought it was some* 
thing like a memory that haunted me thus, — 'tis the spot 
that Maitland talked of yesterday. 

Mor. Captain Maitland ? I saw him just now at the 
works above. 

Andre. Here? On this hill ? 

Mor. Yes, — something struck me in his mien, — and 
there he stands with Colonel Hill, above, on the other 
side. — Mark him now. Your friend is handsome, An- 
dre ; he is handsome, I'll own, — but I never liked that 
smile of his, and I think I like it less than ever now. 



154 THE BRIDE OF 

Andre. Why, that's the f::enuine Apollo-curl, — a line's 
breadth deeper were too much, I'll own. 

{Maitland and another Officer enter.) 

Off. That is all,~that is all, I believe, Captain Mait- 
land. Yonder pretty dwelling among the trees seems 
an old acquaintance of yours. It has had the ill manners 
to rob me of your eye ever since we stood here, and I 
have had little token that the other senses were not in 
its company. Andre, has your friend never a ladye-love 
in these wilds, you could tell us ot i 

Mor. He is sworn to secresy. Did you mark that 
glance ? 

Mait. Love ! I hold it a pretty theme for the ballad- 
makers, Colonel Hill ; but for myself, I have scarce time 
forrhyming just now. Captain Andre, here are papers for 
you. [//e loalks a^oay, descending the road. 

Col. Hill. So ! So ! What ails the boy ? 

{Looking after liimfor a moment^ and then ascending 
the hill.) 

Andre. (Reading.) Humph ! Here's prose enough ! 
Will you walk up the hill with me, Mortmier ? I must 
cross the river again. 

Mart. First let me seek this horse of mine, — the rogue 
must have strayed down this path, I think. 
(He enters the wood.) 



PORT EDWARD. 155 

{Andre walks to and fro xcith an impatient air, then 
pauses.) 

Andre. Well, I can wait no longer for this loiterer. 

[E.vit. 

{Mortimer re-enters, calling from the woods.) 

Mor. Andre! Maitland ! Colonel Hill! Good 
Heavens ! Where the devil are they all 1 Maitland ! 

{Maitland. appears, slowly ascending the road.) 

Mor. For the love of Heaven, — come here. 

Mait. Nay. — but what is it ? 

Mor, For God's sake, come. 



DIALOGUE II. 

Scene. A little glen, darkly shaded with pines. A 
fountain issuing from one side, and falling icith a 
curious murmur into the basin heloio. 

Mortimer and Maitland enter. 

Mor. This is the place ! — Well, if hallucinations like 
this can visit mortal eyes, I'll ne'er trust mine again, 
'Tis the spot, I'm sure of it, — the place, too, that Andre 



156 THE BRIDE OP 

was raving about justnow.-^The fairies' drawing-room, 
— palace rather, — lock at these graceful shafts, Mail- 
land, — and fairies' work, it must have been in good 
earnest. 

Mail. If it's to admire this clump of pine trees you 
have brought me hither, allow me to say you might have 
spared yourself that trouble. I have seen the place al- 
ready, as often as I care to. 

Mor. Come this way a little, — yes, it was just above 
there that I stood, — it must have been. 

Mail. If you would give me some little inkling of what 
you are talking about. Lieutenant Mortimer, I should be 
more likely to help you, if it's help you need. 

Mor. I do not ask you to believe me, but, — as I was 
springing on my horse just now above there, the gurgling 
of this spring cau^^ht my ear, and looking down sudden- 
ly — upon my word. Captain Maitland, I am ashamed 
to describe Avhat cannot but seem to you such an im- 
probable piece of fancy-work ; and yet, true it seemed, as 
that I see you now. I was looking down, as I said, when 
suddenly, among those low evergreens, the brilliant hue 
of a silken mantle caught my eye, and then a woman's 
brow gleamed up upon me. Yes, there in that dark 
cradle, calmly sleeping, all flashing with gold and jewels, 
like some bright vision of olden time, methought there 
lay — a lady, — a girl, young and lovely as a dream ; — the 
white plume in her bonnet soiled and broken, and the 



FORT EDWARD. 157 

long bright hair streaming heavily on her mantle, — and 
yet with all its loveliness, such a face of utter sorrow saw 
I never. I saw her, I saw her, as I see you now, — the 
proud young form with such a depth of grace, in its 
strange repose, and — where are you going? — what are 
you doing, Maitland ? 

Mait. Helen Grey !— 

Mor, You are right. I did not mark that break — yes 
—there she lies. Said I right, Maitland ? 

Mait. Helen Grey ! — 

Mor, Maitland ! Heavens !— what a world of anguish 
that tone reveals ! — Why do you stand gazing on that love- 
ly sleeper thus? 

Mait. Bring water. There's a cup at yonder spring. 
Here has been treachery ! Devils and fiends have been 
working here against me. We must unclasp this man- 
tle. The treasure of the earth lies here. — Now doth 
mine arm enfold it once, at last. 'Tis sweet, Helen, 
mine own true love ; 'tis sweet, even thus. 

Mor. This letter, — see — from those loosened folds it 
just now dropped. This might throw some light, per- 
chance — 

Mait. Let it be. There's light enough. I want no 
more. Water, — more water, — do you see ? 

Mor. Maitland, — this is vain. Mark this dark spot 

upon her girdle— 

1 4 



158 THE BRIDE OF 

Mait. Hush, hush, — there, cover it thus — 'tis nothing. 
Loosen this bonnet — so — 'twas a firm hand that tied 
that knot ; so — she can breathe now. 

Mor. How like Hfe, those sol't curls burst fiom their 
loosened pressure ! But mark you — there is no other mo- 
tion, lam sorry to distress you, — but — Maitland — this 
lady is dead. 

Mait. Dead! Lying hell-hound! Dead! Say -that 
again. 

Mor. God help you ! 

Mait. Dead! Helen Grey, open these eyes. Here's 
one that, never having seen llicm, talks of death. Oh 
God ! is it thus we meet at last ? At last these arms 
are round her, and she knows it not. I look upon her, 
but her eye answers me not. Dead ! — for me 1 Mur- 
dered ! — mine own hand hath done it. 

Mor. Why do you start thus ? 

Mait. Hush! — hush! There! — again — that slow 
heavy throb — again! again! 

Mor. Good God ! she breathes ! This is life indeed. 

Mait. {Solemnly.) Ay, thank God. This moment's 
sweetness is enough. 

Mor. How like one in troubled sleep she murmurs ! 
Mark those tones of sweet and wild entreaty. Listen ! 

Mait. I have heard it again ! — from the buried years 



FORT EDWARD. 



159 



oflove and hope that music came. She is here. 'Tis 
she. This is no marble mockery. She is here! Her 
head is on my bosom. Death caaaot rob me of this 
sweetness now. 

(Talking without.) 
A Lady. This way— I hear their voices. Down this 
pathway — here they are. 

(Lady Ackland and Andre enter the Glen.) 
Lady A. I knew it could not be. They told us she 
was murdered, Maitland. (Starting back.) Ah— ah— 
God help thee, Maitland ! 

Malt. Listen, listen. She was speaking but now. 
There — again ! 

Lady A. And this is she ! Can the wilderness blos- 
som thus? And did God unfold such loveliness— for a 
waste so cruel 1 

Helen. (In a low murmur.) We are almost there. 
If we could but pass this glen. Oh God ! will they stop 
here ? Go on,— go on. Was not that a white tent I 
saw? Goon. They will not. 'Tis nothing,— do not 
weep. 

Malt. Look at me, Helen.— Open these eyes. One 
more look— one moie. 

Andre. She hears your bidding. 

Mait. Oh God ! Do you see those eyes— those dim, 



160 THE BRIDE OF 

bewildered eyes ? — it is quenched — quenched. Let her 
lean on you. 

Lady A. Gently — gently, she does not see us yet. 

Helen. Oh Mother, I am ill and weary. Here's this 
dream again ! Blue sky ? and pine-tree boughs ? Am I 
here indeed ? Yes, I remember now, — we stood upon 
that cliff— I am dying. Is there no one here ? Whose 
tears are these ? 

Lady A. Dear child, sweet one, nay, lean on me. 

Helen. My mother, oh my mother, come tome. Come, 
Annie, come, come ! Strangers all ! 

Mor. Her eye is on him. Hush ! 

A7idre. See in an instant how the light comes flashing 
up from those dim depths again. That is the eye that 1 
saw yesterday. 

Lady A. That slowly settling smile, — deeper and 
deeper — saw you ever any thing so gay, so passing love- 
ly? 

Helen. Is it— is it — Evcrard Maitland— is it iheel 
The living real of my thousand dreams, in the light of 
life doth he stand there now ? Doth he ? ' Tis he ! 

Matt. Helen! 

Helen. 'Tis he ! That tone's spell builds around me 
its all-sheltering music-walls, and death is nothing. Oh 
God, when at thy dark will dimly revealed, I trembled 



PORT EDWARD. 161 

yesterday, I did not think in this most rosy bower to 
meet its tearfulness. 

Mait. Helen, — dost thou love me yet? 

Helen. Doubter, am I dying here ? 

Mait. 'Tis her own most rich and blessed smile, 
even as of old in mirth it shone upon me. Your murder- 
er, you count me then ? 

Helen. Come hither, — let me lean on you. Star of 
the wilderness ! — of this life that is fading now, the sun I 
— doth mme eye see thee, then, at last? Oh! this is 
sweet ! On its own holy home my head rests now. 
Everard, in this dark world Love leans on Faith. How 
else, even in God's love and loveliness, could I trust now 
for that strange future on whose bloody threshold I am ly- 
ing here ; yes, and in spite of prayers and trust, and strug- 
gling hopes. And yet — how beautiful it is — that love in- 
visible, invisible no more. Like glorious sunshine it is 
streaming round me, — lighting all. The infinite of that 
thy smile hath imaged, as real, — it beams on me now. 
Have faith, in him I mean ; for — if we meet again — we'll 
need it then no more; and — how dim it grows — nay, let 
me lean on you, — and — through this life's darkening 
glass I shall see you no more. Nay, hold me ! — quick! — 
where art thou? — Everard! — He is gone — gone! 

Lady A. Dead !-~ 

Mor. She is dead ! 

14* 



162 THE RRIDE OF 

Andre. This was Love. 

Lady A. Sec how her eyes arc fixed on you. The 
light and love of the vanished soul looks through them 
still. Cruelly hath it been sent thence ; and no other 
gleam of its changeful beauty will e'er dawn in them. 
Sadly, oh lovely stranger, I close for ever now these 
dark-fringed lids upon their love and beauty. Yes — this 
was love ! 

Andre. And so there was a need-be in its doom. I'll 
ne'er believe that genuine, that is blessed. The fate of 
this life would not suffer it. Ah ! if it would, if Heaven 
should leave a gem like that outside her walls, we should 
none of us go thither. 

Mail. Dead ? How beautiful ! Yes — let her lie 
there — under that lovely canopy. Dead ! — it's a curious 

word How comes it that we all stand heie ? Ha, 

Andre? — is it you? 

Andre. I heard the talc as I crossed just now, from 
an Indian, who was one in the ambuscade this noon — 
and in the woods on the other side, I found this lady, 
with her attendants, abiding the promise she made you 
last night, to welcome this lovely stranger with htr sa- 
vage guides. 

Mait. Hush, hush. Let it pass. See, — a bride ! 

Mor. (Aside.) Did he trust her with these murder- 
ers? 



FORT EDWARD. 163 

Mait. Ay — say yes. 

Andre. Indeed, Maitland, you wrong yourself. It was 
the treachery of this savage Manida that crossed your 
plans, workhig the mission of some Higher power, — as for 
Alaska, you might as soon have doubted me. 

The Chief he sent for her was one he had known 
years— but, unfortunately, he was one in the ambuscade 
this morning— nay, the leader of iij for the murdered In- 
dian was his son ; and meanwhile amid the fight the 
treacherous Manida, who accompanied him to Mait- 
land's tent last night, and heard the promised reward, 
found means to steal from its concealment the letter, 
with which he easily won this trusting lady to accompa- 
ny him. 

Mor. Ah ! — there it lies. 

Andre. It was here in this glen that Alaska, discover- 
ing the treachery, lay in wait for them with a band of 
chosen warriors, and on that clilT above they fought. 

Lady A. (Aside.) And she stood there, amid those 
yelling demons alone ! Mcthinks the angels should have 
come from their unseen dwellings at her prayer. Can 
our humanity's darkest extremity wring no love from the 
invisible? — 

Andre. Alaska had regained his charge; but the ma- 
lignant eye, and the deadly arrow of the vanquished In- 
dian followed her. She fell, even in the place where you 
found her ; for at that same instant a party from the fort 



164 THE BRIDE OF 

drove them hence, victor and vanquished. Alaska fled ; 
but the murderer, with a tale cunning enough to deceive 
the lover, boldly demanded and obtained the prize. 

Mor. Mark his changed mien. I would rather see 
tears for a grief like this, than that calm smile with 
which he gazes on her now. 

(Burgoyne and St. Leger are seen talking in iheroad 
above, — they enter the glen.) 

Bur. At a crisis like this we might better have lost a 
thousand men in battle ! Ah I ah ! — a sight for our ene- 
mies, Lady Ackland ! Where is this Indian ? 

St. L. We have sent out for him. No one has seen 
him as yet. 

Bur. Let him be found. Look to it. We will give 
them an example for once. I say, at a crisis like this 
we might better have lo>t a thousand men in battle, 
for it will turn thousands against us, and rouse the 
slumbering spirit of resistance here, at the very crisis 
when, had it slumbered on a little longer, all was ours. 

St. L. But this was a quarrel among the Indians, and 
no fault of ours. 

Bar. No matter. You will see what Schuyler will 
make of it. His wordy proclamation will have its living 
sequel now. A young and innocent girl, seeking the 
protection of our camp, is inhumanly murdered by In- 
dians in our pay. A single tale like this is enough to 



rORT EDWARD. 165 

undo at a blow all that we have accomplished here. 
With ten thousand wild aggravations, it will be told in 
every cottage of these borders before to-morrow's sun- 
set. 

{Another Officer enters hastily.) 

Off. Here is Arnold, with a thousand men, on the 
brow of the next hill. One of the rebel guard escaped, 
and the news of the massacre here has reached their 
camp below. 

Bur. Said I right ? 

( The three Officers go out together.) 

Andre. This story is spreading fast, there will be 
throngs here presently. Maitland, — nay, do not let me 
startle you thus, but 

Mait. Is it you? What was it we were saying yes- 
terday ? — we should have noted it. This were a picture 
worth your pencilling now. Those silken vestments, — 
that long, golden hair, — this youthful shape, — there's that 
same haughty grace about it, that the smile of these 
thought-lit eyes would disown with every glance. Then 
that letter, — and the Lady Ackland here, — Weeping? — 
This is most strange. I know you all, — but, — as I live I 
can't remember how this chanced. How comes it that we 
all stand here? Pearls? — and white silk? — a bridal? — 
Ha ha ha ! {Laughing wildly.) 



166 THE BRIDE OF 

Lady A. Take me away. This is too terrible ! lean 
stay here no longer. Take me away, Andre. 

{Exeunt Andre and Lady A. 

{An Officer enters.) 

The Officer. We are ordered to withdraw our detach- 
ment, Captain Mailland. The rebels are just below, 
some two thousand strong, and in no mood to be encoun- 
tered. 

Mor. He does not hear you. We must leave that 
murdered lady here, and 'tis vain to think ol parting 
them. Come. 

[^Exeunt Mortimer and, Officer. 

Mail. They are gone at last. They are all gone. I 
am alone with my dead bride. I must needs smile — I 
could not weep when those haughty and prying eyes 
were upon me, but now — I am alone with my dead bride. 
— Helen , they are all gone, — we are alone. How still she 
lies, — smiling too, — on that same bank. She will speak, 
surely she will. How lightly those soft lashes lie, as if a 
word would lift them. — Helen ! — I will be calm and pa- 
tient as a child. This lovely smile is deepening, it will 
melt to words again. — Hark ! that spring, — that same 
curious murmur! We have checked our sweetest 
words to hear it, we have stood here listening to it, till 
we fancied, in its talk-like tones, wild histories, beautiful 
and sad, the secrets of the woods. — Oh God ! — and have 



PORT EDWARD. ^67 



such memories no power here now ? In mine ear alone 
doth the spring murmur now. Death! what is't?— 
Awake! awake,— by the love that is stronger than 
death, — awnkc !— 

I thought that scene would shift. It had a heavy, 
dream-like mistiness. This is reality again. These 
are tht? \nne trees that 1 dreamed of. See ! how beauti- 
ful! Wilh the sharp outline and the vivid hue such as 
our childhood's unworn sense yields, they are waving 
now. Look, Andre, there she sits, the young and radiant 
straogcr,— there, in the golden sunset she is sUting still, 
braiding those flowers,— see, how the rich life flashes in 
her eye, and yet, just now I dreamed that she was dead, 
and— and—Oh my God ! 

(A voice uithout.) 

Let go, who stays me?— where's my sister? 
(Captain Grey enters.) 

Grey. Ha! Murderer! art satisfied? 

Mait. Ay. 

Grey. What, do you mock me, Sir ? 

Mait. Let her be. She is mine !— all mine! my 
love, my bride,— my 6nV/e? — Mtrc/erer? — Stay ! — 
Don't glare at me ! I know you. Sir. I can hurl off 
these mountain shadowsyet.— They'll send some strong- 
er devil tre they wrench this hold from me! I know 
you well. What make you here ? 



168 t'HE BRIDE 01* 

Grey. Madness ! — there's Utile wonder ! — It's the only 
good that Heaven has left for him ! My lovely play- 
fellow,~my sister, is it so indeed ? Alas ! all gently 
lies this hand in mine. There is no angry strength here 
now. Helen ! — Ah ! would to God our last words had 
not been in bitterness. 

Malt. He weeps. I never thought to see tears there. 
List! — she should not lie there thus. Strange it should 
move you so !— Think it a picture now. 'Tis but a well- 
wrought painting after all, if one but thinks so. See, — 
'tis but a sleeping girl, with the red summer light upon 
her cheek, and the slight breeze stirring her golden hair. 
Mark you that shoulder's grace? — They come. 

{Leslie, EUiston, and others enter.) 

Leslie. Oh God, was there none other ? My lovely 
cousin, and — were you the victim ? In your bridal glory 
chosen, — nay, with your heart's holiest law lured to the 
bloody altar ! Yet this day's history, and something in 
that calm, high mien, tells me, as freely you had moved 
uato it, though God had spoken by a higher voice, and 
with a martyr's garland beckoned you. 

EUiston. Our cause is linked unto that ancient one, 
the cause of Love and Truth ; in which Heaven moves 
with unrelenting hand, not sparing its own loveliest 
ones, but unto bloody death freely delivering them. 

{Grey and Leslie converse apart.) 



FORT EDWARD. 169 

Leslie. Yes — we will bury her here. 'Tis a fitting 
spot; and unto distant days, this lonely grave, witWits 
ever-verdant canopy, shall be even as Love's Shrine. 
Thither, in the calm and smiling summers of those blood- 
less times shall many a fair young pilgrim come, to 
wonder at such love ; and living eyes shall weep, and 
living hearts shall heave over its cruel fate, when unto 
her the long-lold tale, and all the anguish of this far-off' 
day, shall be even as the dim passage of some troubled 
dream. A martyr's garland she hath won indeed ; true 
Love's young Martyr there she lies. 

ElUston. Yet was that love but the wreathed and glit- 
tering weapon of a higher doom. In that holy cause, 
whose martyrs strew a thousandfields, truth's, freedom's, 
God's, darkly, by Power Invisible hath this young life 
been offered here. 

A thousand graves like this, over all this lovely land, 
in lanes and fields, on the lonely hill-side, by the laugh- 
ing stream, and in the depths of many a silent wood, to 
distant days shall speak — of blood-sealed destinies ; 
with voices that no tyrant's power can smother, they 
shall speak. — 

Leslie. The light of that chamber window, through 
the soft summer evening will shine here ; no mournful 
memory of all the lovely past will it waken. The au- 
tumn blaze will flicker within those distant walls, and 
gather its pleasant circle again; but sAe will lie calmly 
15 



170 THE BRIDE OF 

here. For ever at her feet the river of her childhood 
shall murmur on, and many a lovely spring-time, like the 
spring-times of her childhood, shall come and go, but no 
yearning hope shall it waken here ; the winter shall sing 
through the desolate boughs, and rear its fairy temples 
around her, but nought shall break her dreamless rest. — 

Mait. Graves! Is it graves they are talking of? 
Will they bury this gay young bride! 'Tis but the 
name ; there's nothing sad in it. In the lovely summer 
twilight shall her burial be, and thus ; in all her bridal 
array, with the glory of the crimson sunset shining 
through the trees ; — see what a fearful glow is kindling 
on her cheek, and that faint breeze — or, is it life that stirs 
these curls ? Stay !— whose young brow is this ? — Ha ! 
whose smile is this? Who is this they would hurry 
away into the darkness of death ? The grave ! Could 
you fold the rosy and all-speading beauty of heaven in 
the narrow grave ? Helen, is it thee ? — my heaven, my 
long-lost heaven ; and, even now, but for mine own deed 
— Oh God ! was there no hand but mine? — but for me 

They shall not utter it, — there, thus. There's 

but one cry that could unfold this grief, but that would 
circle the round universe and fill eternity. A sad sight 
this ! Is't known who killed this lady, Sir ? 

Leslie. Of all the wrecks of beautiful humanity that 
strew these paths, we have found none so sad as this ! 



FORT EDW AR D. 



171 



Elliston. Mark you those groups of soldiers loitering 
on the road-side there ? 

An Officer. Curiosity. The regiment that was dis- 
missed to-day. They'll be here anon. 
Leslie. Ay, let them come. 

O/. Look,— who comes up that winding pathway 
through the trees, with such a swift and stately move- 
ment 1 A woman! See how the rude soldiers turn 
aside with awe. Ah, she comes hithsr. 
(A voice without.) 

Where is she?— stand aside '.—What have you here 
in this dark ring?— Henry— nay, let me come. 
{Mrs. Grey enters the glen.) 

Grey. For God's sake, Madam, let me lead you hence. 
This is no place for you. Look at this group of men, 
olScers, soldiers — 

Mrs. G. Would you cheat me thus ? Is it no place 
for me 1 What kind of place is't then for her, whose— 
Oh God '.—think you I do not see that slippered foot, nor 
know whose it is,— and whose plumed bonnet is it that 
lies crushed there at their feet ?— imhand me, Henry. 

Leslie. Nay, let her come,— 'tis best. 

{She passes swiftly through the parting group.) 

Mrs. G, My daughter !—i?Zood ? My stricken child 



172 THE BRIDE OP 

smile you ? No pity was there then ? Speak to me, speak I 
Your mother's tears are on your brow, and heed you not? 
Nay, tell me all, my smitten one. This day's dark histo- 
ry will you never pour into my ear, that hath treasured so 
often your lightest grief? Alone through that wild an- 
guish have you passed, and smile you now ? I bade her 
trust in God. Did God see this ? 

{Arnold^ and a group of Soldiers, enter the glen.) 

Arnold. Look there. Ay, ay, look there. You were 
right, Leslie ; — this is better than a battle-field. They'll 
find that this day's work will cost them dear. 

Mrs. G. Did God, who loves as mothers love their 
babes, see this ? Had I been there, with my love, in the 
heavens, could /have given up this innocent and tender 
child a prey to the wild Indians ? No ! — and legions of 
pitying angels waiting but my word. No, — no. 

Elliston. Had you been there, — from that far centre 
whence God's eye sees all, you had beheld what lies in 
darkness here. Forth from this fearful hour you might 
have seen Peace, like a river, flowing o'er the years to 
come ; and smiles, ten thousand, thousand smiles, down 
the long ages brightening, sown in this day's tears. Had 
you been there with God's aZ/-pitying eye, the pitying 
legions had waited your word in vain, for once, unto a 
sterner doom, for the world's sake he gave his Son. 

Mrs. G. Words! Look there. That mother warned 



PORT EDWARD. 173 

me yesterday. " Words, words! My own child^s 
bloodj^^ — I see it now. 

(.4 group of Soldiers enter.) 

A. Soldier. ( Whisperiiig.) Who would have thought 
to see tears on his face; look you. Jack Richards. 

Another Sol. 'Twas his sist3r, hush! — 

Arnold. Ay, ay, come hither. Look you there! 
Lay down your arms. Seek the royal mercy;— here it 
is. Your wives, your sisters, and your innocent chil- 
dren ; — let them seek the royal shelter; — it is a safe one- 
See. 

3d Sol. It was just so in Jersey last winter ;— made 
no difference which side you were. 

Arnold. Ask no reasons. — 'Twas in sport may be. 'Tis 
but one, in many such. Shameless tyranny we have 
borne long, and now, for resistance, to red butchery we 
are given over. The sport of lawless soldiers, and sa- 
vages more cruel than the fiends in hell, are we, and the 
gentle beings of our homes ; — but, 'tis the Royal power. 
Lay down your arms. 

Soldiers. (Shouting.) No. 

Arnold. Nay, nay, — in its caprice some will be safe, 
— it may not light on you. See, here's the proclamation. 
( Throwing it among them.) Pardon for rebles. 

Soldiers. No— no. (Shouting.) Away wit x pardoa! 



174 THE B R i D E OF FORT EDWARD. 

—{Tearing the jwoclamatioji.) To the death! Free- 
iiom for ever ! 



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